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V 







THE FOUR ROADS 


SHEILA KAYE- SMITH 









THE 

FOUR ROADS 


BY 

SHEILA KAYE-SMITH 

Author of “ Sussex Gorse,” “ The Challenge 

to Sirius ” etc. 



NEW 



YORK 


GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



COPYRIGHT, ig2I, 

BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



SEP 29 1921 


Printed in the United States of America 


S>CI.A627032 


CONTENTS 










CQ 

2 T . ' 


PAGE 

PART I 

0 ^1 •*•••••••• ^ 

PART II 

Jerry 66 

PART III 

Thyrza 1 15 

PART IV 

Ivy 153 

PART V 

Nell 21 1 

PART VI 

Baby 241 

PART VII 

Mr. Sumption 264 
























THE FOUR ROADS 










THE 

FOUR ROADS 


PART I: TOM 


I 


F OUR roads in Sussex mark out a patch of country 
that from the wooded, sea-viewing hills behind 
Dallington slips down over fields and ponds 
and spinneys to the marshes of Hailsham and Horse 
Eye. The North Road, slatting the heights with its 
pale, hard streak, runs from far Rye to further Lewes, 
a road of adventures and distances, passing Woods 
Corner and Three Cups Corner, Punnetts Town and 
Cade Street, till it joins the London Road at Cross-in- 
Hand. The South Road borders the marsh, sometimes 
dry on the shelving ground above it, sometimes soggy 
on the marsh level, or perhaps sheeted with the over- 
flow of the Hurst Haven. It comes from Senlac and 
Hastings, and after skirting the flats, crosses the River 
Cuckmere, and runs tamely into Lewes, where all roads 
meet. The East Road is short and shaggy, running 
through many woods, from the North Road, which 
it joins at Woods Corner, to the throws at Bore- 
ham Street. Along this road is a string of farms — 
Cowlease, and Padgham, and Slivericks, mangy hold- 
ings for the most part, with copses running wild and 
fields of thistles, doors agape and walls atumble, and 
gable-ends stooping towards the ponds. The West 


10 


THE FOUR ROADS 


Road is grass-grown, and in July St. John's wort and 
rest-harrow straggle in the ruts and make the dust 
smell sickly-sweet. It forks from the North Road at 
Punnetts Town, and runs through Rushlake Green and 
the Foul Mile to Hailsham in the south. 

In the swale of the day, towards Easter-time, the 
Reverend Mr. Sumption was walking along the North 
Road from Dallington to Woods Corner. Dallington is 
the mother-parish of the country bounded by the Four 
Roads, though there is also a church at Brownbread 
Street, in charge of a curate. Mr. Sumption had no 
truck with either Rector or curate, for he was a min- 
ister of the Particular Baptists, who had a Bethel in 
Sunday Street, as the lane was called which linked the 
East Road with one that trailed in and out of farms 
and woods to the throws at Bucksteep Manor. Not 
that the sect of the Particular Baptists flourished in the 
parish of Dallington, but the Bethel being midway be- 
tween the church and the chapel, a fair congregation 
could be raked in on wet Sundays from the middle 
district, where doctrine, like most things in that land 
of farms, was swung by the weather. 

The Reverend Mr. Sumption was a big, handsome 
man of forty-five, and wore a semi-clerical suit of 
greenish-black, with a shabby hat and a dirty collar. 
His face was brown, darkening round the jaw with a 
beard that wanted the razor twice a day, but did not 
get it. His eyes were dark and sunk deep in his head, 
gleaming like deep ditch-water under eyebrows as 
smooth and black as broom-pods. His teeth were very 
white, and his hair was grey and curly like a fleece. 

As he walked he muttered to himself, and from time 
to time cracked the joints of his fingers with a loud 
rapping sound. These two habits helped form the local 
opinion that he was ‘'queer," an opinion bolstered by 


TOM 


11 


more evidence than is usual in such cases. Women 
standing in their cottage doors noticed him twice halt 
and stoop — once to pick up a beetle which was labori- 
ously crawling from ditch to ditch, another time to pick 
up a swede dropped from some farm-cart. He carefully 
put the beetle on the opposite bank — “ Near squashed 
you, my dear, I did. But He Who created the creeping 
things upon the earth has preserved you from the boot 
of man.” The swede he dusted and crammed in his 
pocket. It was known throughout the hamlets — the 
“ Streets ” and “ Greens ” — of Dallington Parish that 
the minister was as poor as he was unblushing about 
his poverty. 

The evening was very still. Eddies and swells of 
golden, watery light drifted over the hills round Dal- 
lington. In the north the sharp, wooded hill where 
Brightling stood was like a golden cone, and the kiln- 
shaped obelisk by Lobden’s House which marked the 
highest point of South-east Sussex was also burnished 
to rare metal. The scent of water, stagnant on fallen 
leaves, crept from the little woods where the primroses 
and windflowers smothered old stumps in their pale 
froth, or spattered with milky stars the young moss of 
the year. At Woods Corner the smoke of a turf fire 
was rising from the inn, and there was a smell of 
beer, too, as the minister passed the door, and turned 
down the East Road towards Slivericks. The fire and 
the beer both tempted him, for there was neither at 
the Horselunges, the tumble-down old cottage where 
he lodged in Sunday Street. But the former he looked 
on as an unmanly weakness, the latter as a snare of the 
devil, so he swung on, humming a metrical psalm. 

About a hundred yards below Woods Corner, just 
where the road, washed stony by the rains, runs under 
the webbing of Slivericks oaks, he turned into a field, 


12 


THE FOUR ROADS 


across which a footpath led a pale stripe towards Sun- 
day Street. From the top of the field he could look 
down over the whole sweep of country within the Four 
Roads, to the marshes and the sea, or rather the saf- 
fron and purple mists where the marshes and the sea 
lay together in enchantment. The yellow light wavered 
up to him from the sunset, over the woods of Forges 
and Harebeating; there was a sob of wind from Stil- 
liands Tower, and a gleam of half-hidden ponds in the 
spinneys by Puddledock. Mr. Sumption stood still and 
listened. 

The air was full of sunset sounds — the lowing of 
cows came up with a mingled cuckoo’s cry, there was 
a tinkle of water behind him in the ditch, and the soft 
swish of wind in the trees and in the hedge, nodding 
ashes and sallows and oaks to and fro against the light- 
filled sky. On the wind was a mutter and pulse, a 
throb which seemed to be in it yet not of it, like the 
beating of a great heart, strangely remote from all the 
gleam and softness of spring sunset, pale fluttering 
cuckoo-flowers, and leaf-sweet pools of rain. A black- 
bird called from the copse by Cowlease Farm, and his 
song was as the voice of sunset and April and pooled 
rain . . . still the great distant heart throbbed on, its 
dim beats pulsing on the wind, aching on the sunset, 
over the fields of peaceful England dropping asleep in 
April. 

The Reverend Mr. Sumption cracked his fingers 
loudly once or twice : 

“ You hear ’em pretty plain to-night . . . the guns 
in France.” 

2 

He walked slowly on towards the stile, then stopped 
again and pulled a letter out of his pocket. It was a 


TOM 13 

dirty letter, written on cheap note-paper with a 
smudged in indelible pencil. 

“ Dear Father/’ it ran, “ I reckon you’ll be wild when 
you get this. I have left the Fackory and have en- 
listed in the R. Sussex Regement. I could not stand 
that dirty tyke of Hubbard our forman any more. So 
I’ve gone, for I’m sick of this, and there’s no fear of 
my being fetched back, as I’m not satisfackory nor 
skilled in particular, and should have been fetched out 
anyhow all in good time, I reckon. So don’t go taking on 
about this, but please send me some fags, and I should 
like some chockolate, and get some of those kokernut buns 
at the shop with the crinkly paper round. It is a week 
since I did it, but I have been to the Y.M.C.A., and 
bought some Cherry-blossom boot-pollish and a packet 
of Players, and have no more money, and they said on 
a board ‘Write home to-night.’ Well, dear Father, I 
hope you will not take this too badly. Some good may 
come of it, for I am a soldier now and going to fight the 
Germans. Good-bye and don’t forget to send the things 
I said. 

“ Your loving son, 

“ Jerry. 

“ (467572 Pvte. Sumption, 9th Co. 18th Bn. R. Suss. 
Rejiment.)” 

The minister crushed the letter back into the pocket 
already bulging with the swede. “ O Lord,” he groaned, 
“why doth it please Thee to afflict Thy servant again? 
I reckon I’ve stood a lot on account of that boy, and 
there seems no end to it. He’s the prodigal son that 
never comes home, he’s the lo^t sheep that never gets 
into the fold, and yet he’s my child and the woman 
from Ihornden’s ...” His mutterings died down, for 
he heard footsteps behind him. 


u 


THE FOUR ROADS 


A young man was crossing the field from Slivericks, a 
sturdy, stocky fellow, about five-and-a-half feet high, 
with leggings and corduroy riding-breeches, and a black 
coat which was a little too small for him and as he drew 
near sent out an odour of moth-killer — evidently some 
young farmer, unaccountably Sundified on a week-day 
evening. 

“ Hullo, Tom,” said the minister. 

“ Hullo, Mus’ Sumption.” 

The boy stood aside for the older man to cross the 
stile. His head hung a little over the unaccustomed 
stiffness of his collar, and his eyes seemed full of rather 
painful thought. Mr. Sumption fumbled in his pockets, 
drew out the letter, the swede, a pencil without a point, 
a Testament, a squashed mass of chickweed, a tract, and 
finally a broken-backed cigarette, which he handed to 
Tom. 

“ Bad news, I reckon ? ” 

Tom nodded. 

“ They woan’t let me off. I wur afeard they wouldn’t. 
You see, there’s faather and the boys left, and I couldn’t 
explain as how faather had bad habits. You can’t bite 
back lik that on your own kin.” 

“ No, you can’t,” and Mr. Sumption carefully 
smoothed a dirty scrap of paper as he put it back in his 
pocket. “ By the way, my boy’s just joined up. I 
heard from him this morning. He’s in the Eighteenth 
Sussex — I shouldn’t wonder if you found yourselves 
together.” 

” Lord, Mus’ Sumption! You doan’t tell me as he’s 
left the factory ? ” 

“ Reckon he has. Thought he’d like to fight for his 
King and country. He was always a plucked ’un, and 
he couldn’t bear to see the lads going to the front with- 
out him.” 


TOM 15 

There was a gleam in the minister’s eyes, and he 
cracked his fingers loudly. 

“ I’m proud of him — I’m proud of my boy. He’s done 
a fine thing, for of course he need never have gone. He’s 
been three years in munitions now, and him only twenty. 
He went up to Erith when he was a mere lad, no call for 
him to go, and now he’s joined up as a soldier when 
there was no call for him to go, neither.” 

Tom looked impressed. 

“ Maybe I ought to be feeling lik he does, but truth 
to tell it maakes me heavy-hearted to be leaving the 
farm just now.” 

“ The Lord will provide.” 

“ I’m none so sure o’ that, wud faather and his habits, 
and the boys so young and wild, and the girls wud their 
hearts in other things, and mother, poor soul, so un- 
sensible.” 

“ Well, what does the farm matter? Beware lest it 
become Naboth’s vineyard unto you. Is this a time to 
buy cattle and vineyards and olive-yards? This is the 
day which the Prophet said should burn like an oven, and 
the proud, even the wicked, be as stubble. What’s 
your wretched farm? Think of the farms round Ypers 
and Dixmood, think of the farms round Rheims and 
Arrass — Stop!” and he seized Tom’s arm in his hard, 
restless fingers — “ Listen to those guns over in France. 
Perhaps every thud you hear means the end of a little 
farm.” 

Tom stood dejectedly beside him, the broken-backed 
cigarette, for which the minister had unfortunately been 
unable to provide a light, hanging drearily from his teeth. 
The soft mutter and thud pulsed on. The sun was 
slowly foundering behind the woods of Bird-in-Eye, 
sending up great shafts and spines of flowery light into 
the sky which was now green as a meadow after rain. 


16 


THE FOUR ROADS 


“ This war queers me,” he said, and his voice, low and 
thick as it was, like any Sussex countryman’s, yet was 
enough to drown the beating of that alien heart. “ I 
doan’t understand it. I can’t git the hang of it nohow.” 

“ A lot of it queers me,” said Mr. Sumption, “ and I 
reckon that in many ways we’re all as godless as the 
Hun. It’s not only the Germans that shall burn like 
stubble — it’s us. The oven’s prepared for us as well as 
for them.” 

They were walking together down steep fields, the 
ground dreamy with grey light, while before them, be- 
yond the sea, burned the great oven of the sunset, full 
of horns of flame. 

“ I’m thinking of the farm,” continued Tom, his mind 
sticking to its first idea. “ I’m willing enough to go and 
fight for the farms in France and Belgium, but seems 
to me a Sussex farm’s worth two furrin’ ones. Worge 
aun’t a fine place, but it’s done well since I wur old 
enough to help faather — help him wud my head as well 
as my arms, I mean. Faather’s an unaccountable clever 
chap — you should just about hear him talk at the pub, 
and the books he’s read you’d never believe. But he’s 
got ways wot aun’t good for farming, and he needs some- 
body there to see as things doan’t slide when he can’t 
look after them himself.” 

“ Can’t your brother Harry do anything? He must be 
nearly sixteen.” 

“ Harry’s unaccountable wild-like. He’s more lik to 
git us into trouble than help us at all.” 

“ Maybe your father will pull-to a bit when you’re 
gone and he sees things depend on him.” 

“ Maybe he will, and maybe he woan’t. But you 
doan’t understand, Mus’ Sumption. You doan’t know 
wot it feels like to be took away from your work to help 
along a war as you didn’t ask for and don’t see the hang 


TOM 


17 


of. Maybe you’d think different of the war if you had 
to fight in it, but being a minister of religion you aun’t 
ever likely to have to join up. I’m ready to go and do 
my share in putting chaps into the oven, as you say, 
but it’s no use or sense your telling me as it doan’t 
matter about the farm, for matter it does, and I’m un- 
accountable vrothered wud it all.” 

He grunted, and spat out the fag. Mr. Sumption, 
taking offence at once, waved his arms like a black 
windmill. 

“ Ho ! I don’t understand, don’t I ? with my only 
son just gone for a soldier. D you think you care for 
your dirty farm more than I care for my Jerry. D’you 
think I wouldn’t rather a hundred times go myself than 
that he should go? O Lord, that this boy should mock 
me! You’ll be safe enough, young Tom. You’ve only 
the Germans to fear, but my lad has to fear his own 
countrymen too. The army was not made for gipsy- 
women’s sons. My poor Jerry! . . . there in the ranks 
like a colt in harness. He’ll be sorry he’s done it to- 
morrow, and then they’ll kill him. . . . Oh, hold your 
tongue, Tom Beatup ! Here we are in Sunday Street.” 

3 

Sunday Street was the lane that linked up Font’s 
Green on the East Road with Bucksteep Manor at Four 
Throws. From the southern distance it looked like the 
street of a town, oddly flung across the hill — a streak of 
red houses, with the squat steeples of oasts, an illusion 
of shops and spires, crumbling on near approach into a 
few tumble-down cottages and the oasts of Egypt Farm. 
From the north you saw the chimneys first, high above 
the roofs like rabbits’ ears above their heads; then you 
tumbled suddenly upon the hamlet : the Bethel, the 


18 


THE FOUR ROADS 


Horselunges, the shop, the inn whose sign was the Rifle 
Volunteer, the forge, the pond, the two farms — Worge 
and Egypt — with their cottages, and the farmstead of 
Little Worge sidling away towards Pont’s Green. 

To-night it was fogged in the grey smoke of its own 
wood fires, with here and there on its windows the 
lemon green of the sky. It smelled faintly of wood- 
smoke, sweet mud and standing rain, of rot in lathes 
and tiles. The Horselunges, the cottage where the 
minister lodged, was the first house in the village after 
the forge. It stood opposite the Bethel, a brick, eight- 
eenth-century building with big gaunt windows staring 
blindly over the fields to Puddledock. The Bethel had 
been built in Georgian days when the Particular Bap- 
tists flourished in greater numbers round Sunday Street, 
and a saint of theirs had built it to “ the glory of God 
and in memory of my dear wife Susannah Odlarne, 
saved by Grace. For Many are called but Few are 
chosen.” 

Mr. Sumption and Tom had walked the last of their 
way in silence. But the minister’s anger had fizzled 
out as quickly as it had kindled, and at the door of the 
forge he held out his hand very kindly to the bov. 

“ Well, good-night to you, lad. I must look in and 
see Bourner here for a minute or two. I hope your 
mother won’t be much distressed at your news.” 

•* Reckon she will, but it can’t be helped. . . . Funny, 
you doan’t hear the guns down here.” 

“ No more you do, but they’re going it just the same — 
knocking away little farms.” 

Tom nodded with a wry smile and walked off. The 
minister turned into the forge. 

Mr. Sumption could never pass the forge, and the glow 
and roar of sparks from its chimney would call him over 
many a field, from Galleybird or Harebeating, or even 


TOM 19 

from the doors of sick people — if they were not very sick. 
He was a blacksmith's son. 

His father had worked the smithy at the cross-roads 
by Bethersden in Kent, and Ezra Sumption had grown 
up in the smell of hoof -parings and the ring of smitten 
iron. His sketchy education finished, he had taken his 
place beside his father at the anvil — he had held the 
meek tasselled hoofs of the farm-horses, he had worked 
the great bellows that sent the flames roaring up the 
chimney like Judgment Day, he had swung the heavy 
smith's hammer with an arm that in a few years grew 
lustier than his dad's, and in time had come to cast as 
good iron and clap it on as surely as any smith in Kent. 

But during his adolescence strange things had grown 
with his bulk and girth. Lonely and Bible-bred, he 
came to work strange dreams into the roaring furnace 
and clanging iron. In those sheeting, belching flames 
he came to see the presage of that day which should 
burn like an oven, the burning fiery furnace of Shad- 
rach, Meshach and Abed-nego, through which only 
those could walk unsinged who had with them the Son 
of God. When he swung the hammer above his head 
he swung God's judgment down on the molten iron, 
shaping out of its fiery torment a form of use. When the 
horse clumped out of the smithy with the new iron on 
his hoofs, he felt that there went a soul saved, a child of 
God passed through fire into service. 

He became “ queer." He spoke his thoughts, and in 
time preached them to the men who brought their horses 
to be shod. His father jeered at him, his mother was 
afraid, but the minister of a neighbouring chapel took 
him up. He thought he had found a rustic saint. He 
invited young Sumption to his house, taught him, and 
encouraged him to enter the ministry. The parents were 
flattered by the pastor's notice, and he found little diffi- 


20 


THE FOUR ROADS 


culty in persuading them to let their boy leave the forge 
and train as a minister of the Particular Baptists. 

Rather bewildered and scared at the new life before 
him, young Ezra Sumption, comely, burly, shock-headed, 
brown-skinned as a mushroom in a wet field, passed into 
a training college of the sect, and emerged a full-blown 
pastor, with black clothes on his unwieldy limbs and a 
tongue for ever struggling with the niceties of English 
speech. He was a great disappointment to his benefactor, 
for the smith in him had triumphantly survived all gen- 
teel training and theological examinations ; he was to 

all’ intents the same bov who had heard voices in the fire 

* 

and had preached to the carters. His manners and con- 
versation had slightly improved, and his imaginings had 
been given a dose of dogma, but his rough uncouthness, 
his “ queerness ” remained as before. He was an utter 
failure as assistant pastor in a chapel at Dover — the con- 
gregation was shocked by the violence and vulgarity of 
his forge-born similes, his Judgment Day appeals, all the 
spate and fume of the old Doomsday doctrines which 
were fast dying out of Nonconformity. He pined for the 
country, and seemed unable to conform to town habits. 
On his holidays he went back to the forge and helped his 
father with the shoeing as if he had never worn a black 
coat. It was on one of these holidays that he finally 
damned himself. 

In a cottage at Ihornden where he had gone to visit a 
sick woman he met a gipsy girl of the Rossarmescroes or 
Hearns. Her people had given up their wandering life, 
and settled down in the neighbourhood, where they 
owned several cottages. Nevertheless, to marry her, as 
Sumption did soon after their third meeting, was his 
pastoral suicide. He took her with him to Dover, where 
they were both miserable for a few months. Then he 
had to give up his post. They returned to the forge at 


TOM 


21 


Bethersden, where Sumption would have liked to be- 
come a blacksmith again, if it had not been for the con- 
tinual restless yearning of the Word within him, that 
drop of the divine which had somehow mixed with his 
clay, and made him drunken. 

At the close of the year Meridian Sumption died at 
the birth of her child. They had been ideally happy in 
their short married life, in spite of the cage-bars of cir- 
cumstances and the drivings of the Word which divided 
them as in the beginning it had divided the waters from 
the earth. After her death he became “ queerer ” than 
ever. He roamed from village to village, preaching to 
farmers, gipsies, labourers, tinkers, all who would hear 
him and some who would not — leaving his child in his 
mother's care. 

Six years later the death of his father and mother 
made it necessary that he should take the boy — named 
grotesquely Jeremiah Meridian, as if to show his double 
origin in religion and vagabondage. At the same time 
his first patron, the minister of Bethersden, offered to 
recommend him for the pastorate of the Particular Bap- 
tist Chapel at Sunday Street near Dallington. His con- 
science had long grieved over the vagaries of his black- 
smith saint, and in this empty pastorate he saw a way of 
settling both. Sumption had acquired a certain fame as 
a preacher among the ’dens of Kent, candidates for the 
Particular Ministry were not so many as they used to be, 
and the pastorate of Sunday Street, with its dwindling, 
bumpkin congregation, country loneliness, and small 
revenues, was hard to fill. After various difficulties, the 
new minister arrived with his black-eyed, swarthy child. 
He had grow r n tired of his wanderings, and had con- 
ceived an erratic, arbitrary affection for this pledge of 
gipsy love. He looked forward to a settled country life 
and to preaching the Word in his own Bethel. 


22 


THE FOUR ROADS 


The villagers, for the most part, liked him. His 
manners offended them, and as they were mostly Church- 
people they seldom came to his chapel except on wet 
Sundays, when it meant too much dirt and trouble to go 
to hear old Mr. Foxe at Dallington or young Mr. Poul- 
lett-Smith at Brownbread Street. But from the first he 
was as one of themselves, treated with no respect and 
much kindness. He was seldom invited to sick-beds or to 
officiate at funerals or marriages, but he never lacked an 
invitation to a Harvest Supper or Farmers’ Club Dinner. 
For his sake the neighbourhood tolerated the villainies 
of his Jerry, a throw-back to the poaching, roving, thiev- 
ing Rossarmescroes. None the less, they were glad when 
at the outbreak of war he went to work in a munition 
factory, first in London, then, through a series of not very 
creditable wanderings, to Erith. Only the minister 
grieved, for he loved Jerry as he had loved no human 
thing since his mother died in the little apple-smelling 
room above the smithy. He was not always kind to the 
boy, and the arm which had wielded the hammer so 
lustily had on one or two shocking occasions nearly 
broken the bones he loved. But he had for his son a 
half-spiritual, half-animal affection, and the villagers 
pitied him when the boy went, though they were glad to 
see him go. 

“ Mus’ Sumption wur more blacksmith nor he wur 
minister,” they said when any local enthusiasm for him 
prevailed ; and it was true that in his loneliness and 
anxiety he would often find comfort in the forge at Sun- 
day Street, where he could sit and watch Bourner the 
smith swing his hammer, or even sometimes himself, with 
coat thrown off and shirt-sleeves rolled back over arms 
long and hairy as a gorilla’s, smite the hot iron or scrape 
the patient hoof, while his face grew red as copper in the 
firelight and the sweat ran over it and his shaggy chest. 


TOM 


23 


To-night, when Jerry had wounded him afresh, he 
turned to his unfailing refuge. His pain was not the 
mere dread of death or maiming of the lad — it was some- 
thing more sinister, more intangible. “ The army is not 
for the gipsy woman’s son.” He feared for Jerry in that 
organised system of rank and order and command. He 
would have preferred him in the workshop even if the 
relative danger of the two places had been reversed. 
Jerry was less likely to be smashed by a German shell 
than by the system in which he had enrolled himself. 
He would break his head against its discipline, hang him- 
self in its rules. . . . His dread for Jerry under martial 
law was the dread his Meridian’s ancestors would have 
felt for her under a roof. It was a fear based more on 
instinct than on reason, therefore all the more bruising 
to the instinctive passion of fatherhood. It was well 
that he had this refuge of iron and anvil, of hammer and 
hoof, this small comforting similitude of the day which 
should burn as an oven. . . . Bourner the smith did not 
talk to him much. He made a few technical remarks, 
and winked at* his mate when Mr. Sumption boasted of 
Jerry’s valour in joining the army. But gradually the 
tired, careworn look on the minister’s face died away, 
his eyes ceased to smoulder and roll ; in the thick stuffy 
atmosphere, strong with the smell of hoofs and the am- 
moniacal smell of hide and horses, grey with smoke and 
noisy with the roar of flames and the ring of iron, he was 
going back in peace to his father’s house, to the smithy 
at the throws by Bethersden, before the burdens of divine 
and human love had come down upon him. 


4 

After his companion had left him, Tom Beatup walked 
quickly down the lane, past the Horselunges and the Rifle 


24 


THE FOUR ROADS 


Volunteer, to where Worge gate hung crooked across 
Worge drive, paintless and smeared with dew. Here he 
stopped a minute, and looked at the huddle of the farm. 
It was one black shape against the yellow of the sky, and 
the cones of its oasts and the spires of its poplars seemed 
part of its block, so that it looked grotesque and horned. 
He hesitated, rubbed his hand along the top of the gate 
and licked the dew off his fingers, then turned and walked 
eastward. 

Beyond Egypt Farm and the cottages of Worge, just 
before the willow pond that marked the end of the street, 
stood the shop, where Thyrza Honey was “ licensed to 
sell tobacco.” It was in darkness now, except for a faint 
creep of light under the door. Had Thyrza “ shut up ”? 
No — the handle turned, the little bell gave its buzzing 
ring, and the warm light ran out for a moment into the 
darkling lane — with a smell of tea and tobacco, sweets 
and sawdust, scrubbed floor and rotting beams, the smell 
that was to Tom the same refuge as the smell of the forge 
was to Mr. Sumption. 

The shop was empty, but he could see a shadow mov- 
ing to and fro across the little window at the back — a 
ridiculous little window, about a foot square, yet as gay 
with its lace curtains and pink ribbons as the drawing- 
room bow of a Brighton lodging-house. The next minute 
a face was pressed against it, then withdrawn, and the 
door at the back of the shop opened. 

“ Good evenun, Mus’ Tom.” 

“ Good evenun, Mrs. Honey.” 

She moved slowly to her place behind the counter. All 
her movements were slow, which women sometimes found 
irritating, but never men, who were always either con- 
sciously or unconsciously aware of a kind of drawling 
beauty in her gait. She was fair, with hair like fluffy, 
sun-bleached grass. Her skin was like that of an apricot, 


TOM 25 

soft and thick, of a deep creamy yellow, with soft dabs 
of colour on her wide cheek-bones. 

“ A packet of woodbines, please,” said Tom. 

She reached them from the shelf behind her. 

“ Have you got any bull’s-eyes ? ” 

“ Yes — three-ha’pence an ounce.” 

“ They've got dearer.” 

“ And they’ll get dearer still, I reckon.” 

“ Give me three penn’orth, please.” 

She took them out of a glass bottle at her elbow. 

“ Got any monster telephones ? ” 

“ I dunno — I'm afeard we're sold out.” 

Thyrza always spoke of herself in a business capacity 
as “ we.” 

“ Could you maake up two penn’orth ? Harry and 
Zacky are unaccountable fond of them.” 

“ You’re a kind brother — buying sweeties for all 
the family. I reckon the bull’s-eyes are fur your 
sisters.” 

“ Reckon they are. No use giving monster telephones 
to girls — they can’t be eaten dentical.” 

This was obvious when Thyrza finally unearthed the 
telephones in an old case under the ginger-beer box. 
They were long, black coiling strings of liquorice, re- 
quiring sleight of hand, combined with a certain amount 
of unfastidiousness, for their consumption. Tom was 
disappointed that Thyrza had found them so soon. He 
stood by the counter, fingering his purchases and wishing 
his money was not all gone. 

“ I hear you’ve bin up at the Tribunal,” said Thyrza, 
coming to the rescue. 

“ Yes — they woan't let me off.” 

“ You’re sorry, I reckon.” 

“ Unaccountable. I doan’t know wot ull become of 
the farm.” 


26 


THE FOUR ROADS 


Thyrza sighed sympathetically, having nothing to say 
in the way of comfort. 

“ They said as how I wurn’t really indispensable, 
faather being able-bodied and having two lads besides 
me, and two ‘ hands 9 ” — he laughed bitterly. “ I’d like to 
show ’em the ‘ hands ’ — two scarecrows, you might say.” 

“ It's a sad world,” remarked Thyrza comfortably. 

Mrs. Honey was a widow, but never had more than a 
sentimental sigh for her husband who had made her 
miserable, and then suddenly rather proud — on that last 
day of October when the Royal Sussex had held the road 
to Sussex against the fury of the Prussian Guard, and 
Sam Honey died to save the home he had made so un- 
happy while he lived. He had died bravely and she was 
proud of him, but he had lived meanly and she could not 
regret him. 

“ Wot sort of a soldier d’you think I’ll make, Mrs. 
Honey? ” 

“ A good one, surelye ” — and she showed him teeth 
like curd. 

“ Pm naun so sure, though. I’m a farmer bred, and 
the life ull be middling strange to me.” 

“ Maybe you’ll lik it. Sam liked it fine. There was 
no end o’ fun to be had, he said, and foakes all giving you 
chocolate and woodbines, just as if you wur the king.” 

“ Will you send me a postcard now and agaun, Mrs. 
Honey? ” 

“ Reckon I will.” 

There was silence for a minute or two in the shop. 
The oil lamp swung, moving the shadows over the ceil- 
ing where the beams sagged with the weight of Thyrza’s 
little bedroom. A clock in the back room ticked loudly. 
Tom was still leaning across the counter, looking at 
Thyrza. They both felt rather awkward, as they often 
felt in each other’s company. Thyrza wondered when 


TOM 


27 


Tom was going. She liked him — liked him unaccount- 
able — but her bit of supper was on the fire in the next 
room, there was some mending to be done, and many 
other odds and ends of feminine business before it was 
time to set the mouse-traps, put the milk- jug on the 
doorstep, and go to bed. Besides, she knew he ought to 
be going back to Worge to tell his family the news which 
should have been theirs before he brought it to her. 

“ I reckon your mother ull be wondering how you’ve 
fared this afternoon. Has your father gone home and 
told her ? ” 

“ I left faather at Woods Corner.” 

“ She’ll be worriting about him too, then.” 

“ Maybe I should ought to go home and tell them.” 

He straightened himself with a sigh. He must leave 
his refuge of tea and soap and candles, the peace of 
Thyrza Honey’s slow movements and thick, sweet voice. 
She was sorry for him. 

“ You’ll look in again, Mus’ Tom?” 

“ Surelye.” 

“ Maybe you’ll bring your sister Ivy round for a cup 
of tea before you go. Ull you be going soon? ” 

“ In a fortnight. . . . Good evenun, Mrs. Honey.” 

“ Good evenun, Mus’ Tom.” 

Again the bell gave its buzzing ring, as he opened the 
door and went out. 


5 

Tom’s heart had sunk rather low before he came to 
Worge. He was always dissatisfied with himself after 
seeing Thryza. He never seemed able to find anything 
to say, just because she was the person he liked most in 
the world to talk to. He felt that he must be very 


28 


THE FOUR ROADS 


different from the other men who came to see her — for 
men liked Thyrza — who could make even the buying of 
a penn’orth of sweets an occasion for artful sally and 
interesting conversation. That reminded him that he 
had left all his purchases on the counter. What an un- 
accountable fool he was ! However, he would not go 
back for them. They must wait till to-morrow. Still, 
he wished he hadn’t left them. Thyrza would think him 
silly, and besides he had wanted to give those sweets to 
his brothers and sisters. He nearly always brought 
them something when he went into the town. 

They were all at supper in the kitchen — he could hear 
their voices. He wondered if his father had come back 
yet. He had not, for the first question that greeted his 
entrance was : 

“ Whur’s your faather, Tom? ” 

“ I left him at Woods Corner. I’d have thought he’d 
bin home by now.” 

“ Then you thought silly. ’T’aun’t likely as he’ll come 
home till they close. You should have stopped along 
of un.” 

“ I thought I’d better git back home and tell you the 
news.” 

“ And wot’s that? Have they let you off? ” 

“ Not they. A fortnight’s final.” 

Mrs. Beatup began to cry. She was a large, stout 
woman with masses of rough grey hair, and a broad, 
rather childish face, which now looked more like a child’s 
than ever as it wrinkled up for crying. 

“ Now, mother, doan’t you taake on,” said Ivy, the 
eldest girl, getting up and putting her arm round her. 

“ It’s a shaame, a hemmed shaame,” sobbed the 
woman. “ No woander as faather’s stopped at Woods 
Corner. To take our eldest boy as is the prop and stay 
of the whole of us ! ” 


TOM 


29 


“ He aun’t no such thing,” said Ivy, who was a strap- 
ping girl — rather like her mother, except that her round 
face ended in a sharp chin, which gave her an unex- 
pected air of shrewdness. The second girl, Nell, was 
helping her brother to his supper of pork and cabbage. 

“ No one can say he’s indispensable/' she remarked 
in rather a pretty, half-educated voice — she was pupil 
teacher in her second year at the school in Brownbread 
Street. “ There’s Harry just on sixteen, and there’s 
Juglery and Elphick, and no one can say father isn’t a 
strong man and able to look after the farm.” 

“ Your faather’s no use. Tom, did you tell them as 
your faather had bad habits? ” 

“ No, I didn’t,” said Tom sulkily, shovelling in the 
cabbage with his knife. 

“ Then you wur a fool. You know as your faather 
aun’t himself three nights out of five, and yet you go 
and say naun about it. How are they to know if you 
doan’t tell them ? ” 

“ I wurn’t going to tell all the big folk round Senlac as 
my faather drinks.” 

“ Hush, Tom ! I never said as you wur to say that — 
but you might have let ’em know, careful like, as he 
aun’t always able to look after the farm as well as you 
might think.” 

“ It ud have done no good. Drunkenness aun’t a reason 
for exemption, as they say. Besides, I’d middling little 
to do in the matter. Faather was applying fur me, and 
he did all the talking — an unaccountable lot of it, too. I 
wurn’t took because there wurn’t enough said against 
it, I promise you. But seemingly before a farm chap 
like me gits off, he’s got to have a certifickit from the 
War Agricultural Committee, and they read a letter say- 
ing as they’d recommended one to be given, but the 
Executive Committee or summat hadn’t fallen in wud 


30 


THE FOUR ROADS 


it. So there’s no use crying, mother, for go I must, and 
it’ll be none the easier for you making all this vrother.” 
He was cross because he was unhappy. 

“ Will you be in the Royal Sussex, Tom — along of 
Mus’ Dixon and Mus’ Archie? ” asked Zacky, the young- 
est boy. 

“ I dunno.” 

“ When ull you be leaving? ” 

“ In a fortnight, I’ve told you.” 

“ I hear as how Bill Putland ull be going soon,” said 
Mrs. Beatup. “ He’d be company like fur you, Tom.” 
“ Bill ! — he’s too unaccountable fine and grand fur me. 
He thinks no end of himself being Mus’ Lamb’s chuvver. 
But I’ll tell you who’s joined the Sussex, though, and 
that’s Jerry Sumption. I met Mus’ Sumption, this 
evenun, and he toald me.” 

“ You doan’t mean to say as Jerry’s left the fackory? ” 
“ Yes. He went and enlisted — minister says he’s un- 
accountable proud of him.” 

There was a crackle of laughter round the table. 

“ Well, we all of us know, and I reckon minister knows 
as we know, that if Jerry had bin any sort of use at the 
munititions they wouldn’t have let him join up. It’s a 
law that if you maake munititions you doan’t have to 
join up.” 

“ Oh, Jerry’s bin never no good at naun. He’s jest a 
roving gipsy dog.” 

Mrs. Beatup turned suddenly to Ivy: 

“ Did you know aught of this? ” 

“ Not I ! ” said Ivy carelessly. “ Jerry hasn’t written 
to me fur more’n a month. Maybe this is why.” 

“ I’m justabout sorry fur Mus’ Sumption,” said Tom, 
whom his supper had put in better humour. “ He 
has a feeling as Jerry ull come to no good in the 
army.” 


TOM 


31 


“ No more he will, nor nowhere, I’m thinking,” said 
Mrs. Beatup. “ Doan’t you never have naun to do wud 
him, Tom. I doan’t want my children to git the splash 

of that gipsy muck ” And she threw another half- 

defiant, half-furtive look at Ivy. 

“ Where’s Harry?” asked Tom. 

“ Out ratting,” Zacky informed him. 

“ Well, he woan’t find any supper’s bin kept fur him, 
that’s all,” said Mrs. Beatup, rising and pushing back 
her chair. “ Nell, put the plaates on the tray and maake 
yourself useful fur wunst.” 

A flush crept over Nell’s pale, pretty face, from her 
neck to the roots of her reddish hair. She gingerly 
picked up two of the smelly, greasy plates, then quickly 
put them down again. 

“ There’s faather.” 

“ Where?” Mrs. Beatup listened. 

“ I heard the gate — and there goes the side door.” 

The next minute a heavy, uncertain footstep was 
heard in the passage, then a bump as if someone had 
lurched into the wall. The family stood stock-still and 
waited. 

“ Maybe he’ll hurt himself in the dark,” said Mrs. 
Beatup, “ now policeman woan’t let us have the light at 
the passage bend.” 

“ No, he’s all right. There he is scrabbling at the 
door.” 

There was the sound of fingers groping and scratching. 
• Then the door opened and the farmer of Worge came in, 
his hat a little on one side, a lock of hair falling over his 
red forehead, and the whole of his waistcoat undone. 
He stood, supporting himself against the doorpost, and 
glared at the family. 

“ Your supper’s still hot, Ned,” said Mrs. Beatup 
hesitatingly — “ leastways, the gals have eaten all the 


'K 




32 


THE FOUR ROADS 


taters, but I can hot you up . . . ” She began to whimper 
as the bleared grey eyes slowly rolled towards her. 

“ Be quiet, Mother,” said Ivy. 

Mus’ Beatup, slowly and carefully, made his way 
towards a broken-springed arm-chair beside the fire. He 
then sat down by the simple process of falling into it 
backwards ; then he stretched out a foot that seemed 
made of clay and manure 

“ Taake off my boots, Missus.” 

6 

It was quite dark before Tom was able to slip out to 
see to one or two odd jobs that wanted doing in the 
barns. He felt himself obliged to stay in the kitchen 
while his father was there, for though there had not been 
more than a few occasions when surliness had blazed 
into assault, he knew that it was always just possible 
that his father might become violent, especially as his 
mother always went the worst way — with tears, re- 
proaches, arguments and lamentations. What would 
happen when he was no longer at hand to watch over her 
he did not like to think. It was all part of the load of 
anxiety and love which was settling down on him. 

If he had been a free man he would probably have 
felt quite ready for the change ahead of him. Though 
his imagination had scarcely taken hold of the war, and 
though the harrow and the plough, with the thick suck- 
ing earth on his boots, and the drip of rain or stew of 
sunshine on waiting fields, had absorbed most of the 
boyish spirit of adventure which might have sent him 
questing out of stuffier circumstances — though his was 
the country heart, which is the last heart for warfare — 
in spite of all, he might have gone gaily to the new life, 
with its wider reach and freedom, if he had not known 


TOM 


33 


that his departure meant the crumbling of that little 
comer of England which was his, which his arm had 
built and his back supported. 

He knew that Worge leaned on him, for he felt the 
weight of it even in his dreams. It was four years now 
since he had put his shoulder against it; he was only 
just twenty, but he knew that if four years ago he had 
not made up his mind to save the farm, his father would 
have drunk, and the rest of the family muddled, the 
place into the auction market, and the Beatups would 
now be scattered into towns or soaking their humble-pie 
in beer on smallholdings. He had done nothing very 
wonderful. The place was small and no more wanted a 
giant to hold it up than a giant to knock it down. He 
had merely worked while others slacked, thought while 
others slept, remembered while others forgot. But, with- 
out any thrill of pride or adventure, he knew that he had 
tided Worge through its bad hour, and that the same 
little upheld it now. He was the real farmer, though he 
had to be careful not to let his headship be seen. His 
father had not explained things clearly to the tribunal 
— explaining things clearly was not a quality of Tom’s 
either — he had been far too anxious to preserve his own 
importance, which might have suffered had be said, “ My 
son runs the farm while I’m drinking at the pub.” 

The others were not even as much good as his father. 
In the intervals of drinking, which in spite of Mrs. 
Beatup’s three-in-five calculation were often quite re- 
spectable, he was both hard-w r orking and resourceful, 
though of late his brain had grown spongier and threat- 
ened a final rot. But the rest of the family had no up- 
standing moments. Ivy was strong and comparatively 
willing, but Tom did not believe in girls as farm-hands 
and never thought of Ivy even milking the cows. She 
and her mother looked after the chickens and did the 


34 


THE FOUR ROADS 


housework, that was all. Nell was out all day and busy 
working in the evenings for her examination ; Zacky was 
still at school, and Harry was a rover — the comrade of 
other farmers’ younger sons in ratting and sparrow- 
hunting, in visiting fairs, in trespassing for birds’ eggs, 
or sometimes solitary in strange obedience to the call of 
distant wood or village green. Yet Harry was Tom’s one 
hope — a last, forlorn one. 

Tom was waiting for him now. He wanted to speak 
to his young brother alone, not in the dim lath-smelling 
bedroom where Zacky would be a third. Harry did not 
generally stop out late, though he had occasionally 
roamed all night — hunger and fear of a beating (another 
of Tom’s quasi-patemal tasks) usually brought him home 
just in time to satisfy one and escape the other. 

Tom looked into the cowshed — one of the cows had 
shown ailing signs that day, but she seemed well enough 
now, with her large head lolling against the stall, her 
eyes soft and untroubled in the brown glow of his lantern. 
He would not see the calf which had caused him so much 
half-proud anxiety; he wondered what would become 
of them both if it should be born on one of Father’s 
“ bad nights.” Then he went into the stable, where the 
three farm-horses — the sorrel, the brown, and the bay 
— stood stamping and chumbling, with the cold miasmic 
air like a mist above the straw. Then he went back into 
the yard — saw that the henhouse door was fast, that old 
Nimrod the watch-dog had his bone and his water and a 
good length of chain. It was very cold, there was a faint 
smell of rime on the motionless air, and the stars were 
like spluttering candles in the frost-black sky. These 
April days and nights were unaccountable tricky, he told 
himself. That noon the very heart of the manure-heap 
had melted in the sun, and now it was hardening again 
— his boot hardly sank into the stuff as he trod it with 


TOM 35 

his heel. Some of it ought to be carted to-morrow and 
put round the apple-trees. . . . 

Harry was very late. He would go into the corn- 
chamber and do some accounts. He was clumsy with his 
figures, and they kept him there twisting and scratching 
his head till nearly ten o’clock, when he heard a footfall, 
would-be stealthy, on the stones. 

He rose quickly and ran round the yard to the back- 
door just as a shadow melted up against it. 

“ Here — you ! ” cried Tom surlily, for he was tired and 
muddled with his sums — “ doan’t you think to go slither- 
ing in quiet lik that, you good-fur-naun.” 

“ I’ll come in when I like,” grumbled Harry. “ You 
aun’t maaster here.” 

“ Well, I’m the bigger chap, anyways, so mind your 
manners. Where’ve you bin ? ” 

“ Only down to Puddledock.” 

“ Puddledock aun’t sich a valiant plaace as you shud 
spend half a day there. You’ve bin up to no good, I 
reckon. A fine chap you’ll be to mind Worge when I’m 
gone.” 

“ You’re going, then?” 

Harry’s voice was anxious, for he was fond of Tom, 
though he resented his interference with his liberties. 

“ Yes — I’m going . . . join up in a fortnight. Come 
in, Harry ; I want to spik to you.” 

“ I want my supper.” 

“ You’ll have your supper, though you doan’t desarve 
it, you spannelling beggar. I’ll come and sit along of 
you ; we must talk business, you and I.” 

“ About Worge ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

They were in the kitchen now, dark except for some 
gleeds of fire. The rest of the family had gone to bed, 
but the broken supper was still on the table — the hacked, 


36 


THE FOUR ROADS 


hardening loaf, and the remains of the bacon and cab- 
bage under floating scabs of grease. Tom lit the lamp 
and Harry sat down, hungry and uncritical. The two 
boys were curiously alike, short and sturdy, with broad 
sunburnt faces, grey eyes, big mouths, and small, defiant 
noses. Harry’s coat was covered with clay all down one 
side, and the sleeve was torn — Tom was too heavy- 
hearted for more scolding, just noted drearily a new item 
of expenditure. The younger brother saw the elder’s 
cast-down looks : 

“ I’m unaccountable sorry, Tom,” he said sheepishly. 

“ Cos of wot? Cos I’m going or cos you aun’t worth 
your bed and keep? ” 

“ Cos of both.” 

“ Well, there’s naun to do about one, but a sight to do 
about t’other. Harry, you’ll have to mind Worge when 
I’m agone.” 

“ Wot can I do?” 

“ You can work instead of roaming, and you can see 
to things when faather’s bad — see as there aun’t naun 
foolish done or jobs disremembered. Elphick and Jug- 
lery have only half a head between them. Before I go 
I’ll tell you all I’ve had in my head about the hay in 
Bucksteep field, and the oats agaunst the Street and 
them fuggles down by the Sunk. And you’ll have to 
kip it all in your head saum as I’ve kipped it in mine, 
and see as things come out straight by harvest. D’you 
understand ? ” 

“ Yes, Tom.” 

“ And there’s Maudie’s calf due next month, and a 
brood of them Orpingtons, and I’d meant to buy a boar 
at Lewes Fair and kip him for service. You’ll never 
have the sense to do it. You mun stop your ratting and 
your roving, or Worge ull be at the auctioneer’s. 
Faather’s a valiant clever chap when he’s sober, and 


TOM 


37 


book-larned too, but the men are two old turnup-heads, 
and Zacky’s scarce more’n a child, and the gals are gals 
— so it’s up to you, Harry, as they say, to kip the plaace 

going” 

Harry groaned 

“ Why wudn’t they let you stay ? ” 

“ Because they didn’t see no sense in kipping an A 
man on farm-work when there wur plenty about to do 
his job. They doan’t understand how things are, and 
when you coame to think of it, it’s a shaum as I can’t 
go wud a free heart.” 

“ Do you want to go ? ” 

“ I dunno. I aun’t got the chance of knowing, wud 
all this vrothering me. But I’d go easier if I cud think 
the plaace wouldn’t fall to pieces as soon as I left it, and 
that if I’m killed ...” 

He stopped. Strangely enough, he had never thought 
of being killed till now. 


7 

Tom’s calling-up papers did not arrive till a few days 
later. It was a showery morning, with a flooding blue 
sky, smeethed and streaked with low floats of cloud. 
The rain was cracking on the little green panes of the 
kitchen window, and the spatter of the drops, with the 
soft humming song of the kitchen fire, was in Tom’s 
ears as he studied the sheet which entitled one horse, 
one bicycle, one mule, one (asterisked) private soldier 
to travel cost-free to Lewes. He opened his mouth to 
say, “ My calling-up papers have come,” but said noth- 
ing, just sat with his mouth open. The shower rattled 
and the fire hummed, then a sudden spill of sunshine 
came from the dripping edge of a cloud into the room, 
making the drops on the pane like golden beads, and light- 


38 


THE FOUR ROADS 


in g up the breakfast table, so that the mangled loaf and 
the dirty cups became almost as wonderful as the shining 
faces round them. 

Mus’ Beatup was himself this morning — they still 
called it “ himself,” though of late his real self had 
seemed more and more removed from the lusty head- ■ 

acheless man who sat among them to-day, more and 
more closely coiled with that abject thing of sickness 
and violence which came lurching down the fields at 
dusk from the Rifle Volunteer. He was studying his 
share of the post — an invitation to an auction at Rush- 
lake Green, where Galleybird Farm was up for sale with 
all its live and dead stock. Mrs. Beatup had never had 
a letter in her life, nor apparently wanted one. She 
always exclaimed at the post, and wondered why Ivy 
should have all those postcards. In her young days no 
one sent postcards to girls. If a chap wanted you for 
wife he hung around the gate, if he did not want you 
for wife he took no manner of notice of you. A dozen 
chaps could not want Ivy for wife — her with as many 
freckles as a foxglove, and all blowsy too, and sunburnt 
as a stack — and yet there were nearly a dozen postcards 
strewn round her plate this morning. Some were field 
postcards, whizzbangs, from Sussex chaps in France, 
some were stamped with the red triangle of the Y.M.C.A., 
some were views of furrin Midland places where Sussex 
chaps were in training, and some were funny ones that 
made Ivy throw herself back in her chair, and show her 
big, white, friendly teeth, and laugh “ Ha! ha! ” till the 
others said, “ Let’s see, Ivy,” and the picture of the 
Soldier come home on leave to find twins, or the donkey 
chewing the Highlander’s kilt, or the Kaiser hiding in a 
barrel from “ Ach Gott! die Royal Sussex!” would be 
passed round the table. To-day one of the pictures of 
the gentleman with twins — it was a popular one in the 



TOM 39 

Sussex, and Ivy had two this morning — was from Jerry 
Sumption. 

“ Says he’s fed up,” said Ivy. “ He reckons I knew 
about his joining. How was I to know ? He’s at Water- 
heel Camp ; and he’s met Sid Viner and young Kadwell. 
They kip those boys far enough from home.” 

“ And a good thing too,” said Mrs. Beatup. “ We 
doan’t want Minister’s gipsy spannelling round.” 

“ Spik for yourself, mother — there aun’t a lad at 
Waterheel as I wuldn’t have here if I cud git him.” 

“ You’ll come to no good,” grumbled her father, and 
pretty Nell, with her anaemic flush, shrugged away from 
her sister’s sprawling elbow. She herself had Tad only 
one postcard, which she slipped hastily into the front of 
her blouse — unlike Ivy, who left hers scattered over the 
table even when the family had risen from their meal. 
There was not much in the postcard to justify such 
preferential treatment, for it ran — “ There will be a 
meeting of the Sunday-school teachers to-morrow in 
church at 5.30. H. Poullett-Smith,” 

Nell began to collect her books for school. She care- 
fully dusted the crumbs from her skirt, smoothed her 
pretty marigold hair before the bit of mirror by the fire- 
place, put on her hat and jacket, and was gone. The 
rest of the family began to disperse. Zacky had to go to 
school too, but his going was an unwilling, complicated 
matter compared with Nell’s. His mother had to find 
his cap, his sister to mend his bootlace, his father to cuff 
his head, and finally his brother Tom to set him march- 
ing with a kick in his rear. 

Ivy tied on a sacking apron and began to slop soap- 
suds on the floor of the outer kitchen, Mrs. Beatup set 
out on a quest — which experience told would last the 
morning — after a plate of potatoes she could have sworn 
she had set in the larder overnight. Mus’ Beatup went off 


40 


THE FOUR ROADS 


to his fields with Harry at his tail, and calling to Tom — 
“ Have you bin over to Egypt about them roots ? ” 

“ No — I’m going this mornun.” 

“ Then you can tell Putland as it’s taake or leave — he 
pays my price or he doan’t have my wurzels.” 

“ Yes, Father.” 

Tom went off very quietly, fingering the summons in 
his pocket. How many times now would he go on these 
errands to Egypt, Cowlease, Slivericks and other farms? 
His father would have to go, or if unfit, then Harry 
would be sent — Harry who would sell you a cart of 
swedes for tuppence or exchange a prize pig for a ferret. 
That was an unaccountable queer little bit of paper in 
his pocket. He could tear it in two, but it could also 
do the same for him, and in any conflict it must come 
out winner. It was, as it were, a finger of that in- 
visible hand which was being thrust down through the 
clouds to grab Tom and other little people. The huge, 
unseen, unlimited, unmerciful force of a kingdom’s 
power lay behind it, and Tom’s single body and soul 
must obey without hope of escape the great Manhood 
that demanded them both, as a potter demands clay 
and scoops up the helpless earth to bake in his oven. . . . 

All this in a more or less rag-and-tag state was passing 
through his mind as he walked down the drive of Worge, 
with speedwell a-bloom between the ruts, and came to 
the Inn whose painted sign was a volunteer of Queen 
Victoria’s day. It was an old house, with a huge wind- 
ward sprawl of roof, but had not been licensed more than 
sixty years. Tom disliked it as a temptation which 
Providence had tactlessly dumped at their door. If 
Mus’ Beatup had had to walk to the Crown at Woods 
Corner or the George at Brownbread Street he would 
have been more continuously the smart, upstanding man 
he was this morning. 


TOM 


41 


Egypt Farm was just across the road. It was smaller 
than Worge, but also brighter and more prosperous- 
looking. There was new white paint round the windows 
and on the cowls of the oasts, and the little patch of 
garden by the door was trim, with hyacinths a-blowing 
and early roses spotting the trellis with their first buds. 

“ Mornun, Tom,” called Mrs. Putland cheerily. She 
was putting a suet pudding into the oven, with the 
kitchen door wide open, and saw him as he crossed the 
yard. 

“ Mornun, ma’am. Is the maaster at home? ” 

“ Maaster’s over at Satanstown buying a calf. Can 
I give him your message? ” 

“ Faather says as it’s taake it or leave it about them 
roots.” 

“ Then I reckon he’ll taake it. He never wur the man 
to higgle-haggle, and the roots is good roots.” 

“ Justabout valiant — I never got a tidier crop out of 
Podder’s field.” 

Mrs. Putland had come to the door and stood looking 
at him, with her arms akimbo. She was a small, trim 
woman, buttoned and sleeked, and somehow the expres- 
sion of her face was the same as the expression of the 
house — the clean, kindly, enquiring look of Egypt with 
its white-framed staring windows and smooth, ruddy 
tiles. 

“ It’ll be unaccountable sad fur your faather to lose 
you. You’ve bin the prop-stick of Worge this five year.” 

“ Can’t be helped. I’ve got to go. Had my calling-up 
paapers this mornun.” 

“ That’s queer. So did Bill. Reckon you’ll go to- 
gether.” 

“ Didn’t Bill try fur exemption, then? ” 

“ No — Mus’ Lamb wouldn’t have it. Besides, there 
wurn’t no reason as he should stay. We’ve done wud- 


42 


THE FOUR ROADS 


out him here since he went to the Manor, and Mus’ Lamb 
ull kip his plaace fur him till he comes back.” 

Tom envied Bill his free heart. 

“ I’ll give him a call,” continued Bill’s mother. “ He 
aun’t due up at the Manor fur an hour yit, and he wur 
saying only last night as he never sees you now.” 

A few minutes later Bill answered his mother’s call, 
and sauntered round the corner of the house, his hands 
in his pockets, his chauffeur’s cap a little on one side. 
He had a handsome, fresh-coloured face, strangely cheeky 
for a country boy’s, and Tom always felt rather ill at 
ease in his presence, a little awed by the fact that though 
his hands might sometimes be brown and greasy with 
motor-oil, his body was of a well-washed whiteness un- 
known at Worge. 

“ Hullo, Bill.” 

“ Hullo, Tom.” 

There had never been a very deep friendship between 
them ; Bill was inclined to be patronising, and Tom both 
to resent it and to envy him. But to-day a new, mys- 
terious bond was linking them. In the pocket of Bill’s 
neat livery there was a paper exactly like that in Tom’s 
manure-slopped corduroys. 

“ I hear you’ve bin called up, Bill.” 

“ Yes — in a fortnight, they say.” 

“ I’m going too — in a fortnight.” 

“ Pleased?” 

“ No. I’m unaccountable vrothered at leaving the 
farm. Wot d’you feel about it? ” 

“ Oh, me? — I’m not sorry. They’ll keep my place open 
for me at the Manor, and I shall like getting a hit at 
Kayser Bill. Besides, the gals think twice as much of 
you if you’re in uniform.” 

This was a new complexion on the case, and Tom’s 
thoughts wandered down to the shop. 


TOM 


43 


“ I shall like being along of Mils’ Archie, too — he told 
me I could be along of him. We’re all eighteenth Sussex 
hereabouts. I reckon you’ll be in with us.” 

“ I dunno.” 

Tom’s brows were crinkled, for he was thinking hard. 
He was chewing the fact that for a free man there might 
be something rather pleasant in soldiering. This happy, 
conceited, self-confident little chauffeur was teaching him 
that the soldier’s lot was not entirely dark. “ Called up ” 
— “ taken ” — “ fetched along ” — those were the words of 
his conscript’s vocabulary. But now for the first time he 
saw something beyond them, a voluntary endeavour be- 
yond the conscript’s obedience, a corporate enthusiasm 
beyond his lonely unwillingness. “ We’re all eighteenth 
Sussex hereabouts. ...” 

8 

April was May before Tom’s weeks of grace had run. 
The field hollows were white with drifts of hawthorn, 
and the pale purplish haze of the cuckoo-flower had given 
place to the buttercups’ dabble of gold. The papery- 
white of the wild cherry had gone from the woods, which 
were green now, thick, and full of the nutty smell of 
leaves. The ditches were milky with fennel, and on the 
high meadows by Thunders Hill the broom and the gorse 
clumped their yellows together, making the hill a flaming 
cone to those who saw it from the marshes of Horse Eye. 

The farmers of Dallington watched their hayfields 
rust. There was little corn in that country bounded by 
the Four Roads, so as the sun climbed higher noon by 
noon, the neighbourhood grew gipsy-brown — the straw- 
coloured feathers of the grass veiled a glowing heart of 
clover, and above them opened the white ox-eyes and 
pools of sorrel. . . . 


THE FOUR ROADS 


44 

Tom Beatup watched ripen the fields whose harvest 
he would not see. There were some twenty acres of hay 
at Worge, and two fields in which the green corn was his 
hope and dread. The crop was promising on the whole 
— a bit sedge-leaved perhaps, but firm in its seed. There 
were the hops, too, in the low fields by Puddledock, where 
Forges Wood shut off the north-east wind. He trundled 
the insect-sprayer round the bines, and afterwards loved 
the smell of his green, sticky hands. 

He would have been rightly offended if anyone had 
told him that his chief pangs of parting were for the 
farm. None the less, there was a lingering wistfulness in 
his last dealings with it which was not in his intercourse 
with his family. He loved his mother, he admired his 
father, he felt for his brothers and sisters an elder 
brother’s half-anxious, half-contemptuous fondness; but 
in his last services for Worge, whether in field or barn, 
there was something almost sacramental. His duties were 
rites — he was the unconscious priest of that tumble-down 
altar before which the manure smoked as incense and on 
which the burnt-offering of his boyhood lay. 

He had, too, a hunger for the fields, not only the fields 
of Worge, but for all those within the Four Roads — 
which he did not see as roads leading to adventure, but 
as boundaries fencing home. When his tasks allowed 
he would roam in the webbing of tracks that the farms 
have spun between the lanes — he would go to Starnash 
or Oxbottom Town, watch the lightless sky grow purple 
over Muddles Green, and the big stars begin to spark it 
as the moon hung like a red lamp above Mystole Wood. 
High on the zenith the sky would be rainy green, and he 
would watch it deepen to purple round the crimson moon, 
all unconscious of its beauty, loving it only because it 
hung above this clay in which his feet were stuck, be- 


TOM 45 

cause from it came the brightness which waked the 
homely things he had put in the earth to sleep. . . . 

Sometimes he would be disturbed by another quest, 
and would beat slowly up and down on the road outside 
the shop, longing to go in and yet strangely reluctant. 
He felt all tied-up and dumb. He could not tell Thyrza 
Honey what he felt at leaving her any more than he 
could have told Starnash or Thunders Hill — than he 
could have told the little brother who lay against him 
on cold nights — or the dreamy-eyed cows he milked — or 
even the grinning, whining watch-dog who muddied him 
with his love. He was dumb, as all these were dumb. 
He felt unaccountable vrothered at having to leave them 
all, and that was the utmost he could say; and yet he 
knew that in Thyrza’s case, at any rate, it was not 
enough. A man with a better tongue than he would 
have gone into that shop, and shut himself into the light 
and tea-smelling warmth, instead of pacing up and down 
under the cold stars. 


On the last day of all he plucked up courage. He 
could not go without saying good-bye, and he had always 
brought her the big things of his life — from his buying 
of a horse-rake to the news of the Tribunal’s decision — 
though each time he had wrapped his need in some penny 
purchase of tobacco or sweets. 

The little bell buzzed and ting’d. The shop was empty 
and rather dark, for a grey starless dusk was on the 
fields after a rainy day. The wind rattled the door he 
had shut behind him, and moaned round the little leaded 
window banked up with penny toys and tins of fruit. 
It had a long sighing sweep over the fields from Bird-in- 


46 


THE FOUR ROADS 


Eye, and just across the road was a willow pond, from 
which it seemed to drink sadness. Over the banks of 
papered tins and paint-slopped toys he could see the grey 
bending backs of the willows, and the steely ruffle of the 
pond under the wind. His throat grew tight with a word 
that was stuck in it — “ Good-bye.” 

The door of the back room opened, and there was a 
leap of firelight and the song of a kettle before it shut. 
“ Evenun, Mus’ Tom,” said Mrs. Honey. 

“ Evenun,” said Tom. “ A packet of Player’s, please.” 
Thyrza put it on the counter. “ Any sweeties ? ” 

“ Yes. I’ll taake a quarter of bull’s-eyes and four- 
penn’orth of telephones. I woan’t leave them behind me 
this time ” — and Tom grinned sheepishly. 

“ Your brothers and sisters ull miss you,” said Thyrza, 
poking with a knife at the sticky wedge of the bull’s-eyes. 
“ Not more’n I’ll miss them and the whole plaace.” 

“ I reckon it’s sad to say good-bye.” 

“ Unaccountable sad.” 

Her eyes were fixed on him very tenderly. She was 
sorry for Tom Beatup — had always been a little sorry 
for him— she could not quite tell why. 

“ It’ll be a long time before I see you again, Thyrza.” 
“ Maybe not — you may git leave and come to see us.” 

He shook his head “ Not vet awhile.” 

His parcels lay before him, but she did not expect him 
to go. He was leaning across the counter, staring at her 
with big, solemn eyes, and she knew that she liked his 
face, broad and ruddy as a September moon, that she 
like the whole sturdy set of him. 

“ Stay and have a bit of supper wud me, Tom.” It 
was quite unconsciously that they had become Tom and 
Thyrza to each other. 

The colour burned into his cheeks, but he shook his 
head. 


T 


TOM 47 

“ No, thank you kindly. I’ve got to git back 
hoame. I’ve a dunnamany things to do this last 
evenun.” 

“ Then come on your fust leave.” 

“ Reckon I will Oh, Thryza ! ” 

His hunger had outrun his shyness. He was trem- 
bling. She had lifted her hand to smooth back the soft 
fuzz of her hair, which in the dusk had become the 
colour of hay in starlight, and as she dropped her hand, 
he caught it, and held it, then kissed it. It was warm 
and wide and soft and rather sticky. 

I “ Oh, Tommy ” 

“ D’you mind, Thyrza?” 

“ I? — Lord, no, dear.” 

He was still holding her hand across the counter, and 
now he slowly pulled her towards him. Her darling face 
was coming closer to him out of the shadows; he could 
smell her hair. . . . 

Buzz — Ting. 

Their hands dropped and they started upright, both 
looking utterly foolish. The Reverend Henry Poullett- 
Smith sniffed an air of constraint as he entered. 

“ Good evening, Mrs. Honey. I came to leave this — 
er — notice about the Empire Day performance at the 
schools. Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to show it in the 
window, and — er — come yourself.” 

“ Thank you, sir. I’ll put it here by the tinned salmon. 
That’s what gets looked at most.” 

“ Thank you, Mrs. Honey. Hullo, Beatup — I didn’t 
see you in this dim light.” 

“ I’ll be gitting the lamp,” said Thyrza. 

Tom swept his parcels off the counter into his pockets-, 
and muttered something about “ hoame.” 

“ This is your last day, isn’t it? ” asked the curate. 

“ Yessir. Off to-morrow.” 




48 


THE FOUR ROADS 


“ Sorry? ” 

“ Middling sorry, for some reasons/’ 

“ But it will be a big experience for you.” 

The curate was young, and sometimes vaguely 
hankered after that adventure in which no priests but 
those of godless France might share. It was hard to 
see it being wasted on a pudding-headed chap like 
Beatup. 

Tom only grunted his reply to this challenge. He was 
angry with the parson for having come into the shop, 
discreet as had been his entry. He did not think of 
waiting till he had gone, for somehow no one, especially 
a man, ever left Thyrza’s shop in a hurry, as if the 
tranquil dawdle of the shopkeeper communicated itself 
to her customers, making them lounge and linger long 
after their purchases were made. 

“ Good-bye, Mrs. Honey.” 

“ Good-bye, Tom.” 

“ Good-bye, and good luck,” said the curate, shaking 
hands. 

The bell buzzed again, and Tom was out in the throb 
and shudder of the wind, while Thyrza lit the lamp in 
the house behind him. 


io 

When he reached home he found all the family at 
supper, except Harry, who after a fortnight’s doubtful 
virtue had, on his brother’s last night at home, escapaded 
off with two young Sindens from Little Worge. Mrs. 
Beatup was inclined to be tearful about it. “ Wot we’ll 
do when you’re agone, Tom, Lord only knows.” Of late 
she had taken to treating Tom’s departure as a volun- 
tary, not to say capricious, act, and her frequent lamen- 
tations were gabbled with reproach, vague hints that if 


TOM 49 

he had liked he could have prevented the catastrophe 
— precisely how, she never told him. 

Mus’ Beatup was not drunk. Only a negative state- 
ment could describe him, for neither was he sober. An 
alcoholic Laodicean, neither hot nor cold, he lolled over 
the head of the table, and argued with Nell, the pupil- 
teacher, on the utter futility of the Church of England, 
or, indeed, any sort of Church. It was characteristic of 
Nell that she would argue with her father, drunk or 
sober. She had championed her causes against a far 
less responsible adversary than she had before her to- 
day. Her cheeks were pink with refutation, and her little 
sighs and exclamations and chipped beginnings of phrases 
popped like corks round Mus’ Beatup’s droning eloquence 
— that eloquence which so filled Tom with admiration 
and made him boast of his father’s book-learning among 
the farms. 

“ It’s as plain as the nose on your face, and has all bin 
proved over and over again as there wuren’t no such 
persons as Adam and Eve. There’s a chap called Dar- 
win ’s proved as we’re the offsprings of monkeys, and a 
chap called Bradlaugh ’s proved as we all come out of 
stuff called prottoplasm — so where are your Adam and 
Eve, I’d lik to know? ” 

“But, father, as if it mattered. The Church . . .” 

“ The Church is there to prove as the world was maade 
in six days, when it’s bin proved over and over again 
as it hasn’t.” 

“ The Church is there for no such thing — it’s ” 

“ I tell you it’s bin proved as it’s there for that very 
purpose.” 

“Who’s proved it?” 

“ Darwin and Huxley and Bradlaugh, and a lot more 
clever chaps.” 

“ But they lived years ago, and it’s ” 


50 


THE FOUR ROADS 


“ Not so many years ago as your Adam and Eve, and 
yet you go and believe in them. . . 

“ I don’t. Not in the sense. ...” 

“ When it’s bin proved as there never wur no Adam 
and Eve. The fust people wur monkeys, descended from 
prottoplasm, and then caum the missing lynx and then 
caum us. I tell you it’s all bin proved over and over 
again, and parson chaps and silly gals aun’t likely to 
prove anything different.” 

Tom listened respectfully, if rather grudgingly, to this 
learned conversation. He wanted to talk to his father 
about one or two matters concerning the farm, but knew 
there would be no chance for him to-night. He kept up 
at intervals a grunting intercourse with his mother, who 
wanted every other minute to know where he’d been and 
where Harry had got to, and what in the Lord’s name 
they were to do without him. Into the bargain, he ate 
a hearty supper, for though he was in love and rather 
miserable, he was also a healthy young animal, sharp-set 
after a day in the open air. 

At last the theological argument ended, not because it 
was any nearer solution or had indeed moved at all 
from its first premises, but because the end of supper 
dispersed the combatants, Nell to her work, and Mus’ 
Beatup, ignominiously, to the kitchen sink. Having re- 
lieved his stomach of its load of bad beer and half- 
masticated food, he went grumbling upstairs to bed, 
wondering what we were all coming to nowadays, and 
why nobody stopped the war. 

Mrs. Beatup reckoned, with a sigh, that she had better 
go to bed too, as Maaster didn’t like it if she disturbed 
him later. So she lit her candle, and went slowly creak- 
ing upstairs, leaving Ivy to clear away the supper. 
Just where the stairs bent, she suddenly stood still, as 
if a thought had struck her. 


TOM 


51 


“ Tom,” she called. 

He was cleaning his boots in the outer kitchen, but 
when he heard her he ran up to where she stood, thick 
against her monstrous shadow in the angle of the stairs. 

“ It’s queer as you never think of kissing your 
mother.” 

He had not kissed her for weeks, but now, suddenly 
troubled, he did so. 

“ I’m sorry, mother.” 

“ And so you may be — on your last night, too.” 

He stood looking at her sheepishly. 

“ Well, git down to your business. I mustn’t linger, 
or Maaster ull be gitting into bed in his boots.” 

He went downstairs, feeling suddenly smartingly sorry 
for his mother as she waddled upwards to this drunkard’s 
bed. He saw that her lot was a hard one. 

ii 

The passage was in darkness, and Tom did not see, but 
felt, the side door swing open, with a damp drench of 
wind from the yard. There was a grey mist in the 
passage. The next minute a white stick-like thing flew 
out of it, suddenly like the wind, and then bumped into 
Tom, with the unexpected contact of warm flesh against 
his hands, and “ Oo-er,” in Harry’s voice. 

“ Harry ...” 

“ Oh, that’s you, Tom? Lemme git up and fetch some 
cloathes.” 

“ But where’s those as you went out in? ” 

“ I dunno. I’ll tell you afterwards, but I’m coaid, and 
I want my supper.” 

The slow, facile anger of his type went tingling into 
Tom’s speech and hands. 

“ Supper! I’m hemmed if you git so much as a bite. 


52 


THE FOUR ROADS 


Tell me this wunst where you left your cloathes or I’ll 
knock your head off, surelye.” 

He laid violent hands on Harry, who was, however, 
far too slippery to hold. He was free in a minute and 
dashed into the outer kitchen, slamming the door after 
him. 

When Tom came in he was sitting tailor-fashion on 
the table, gnawing the top of a cottage loaf. The elder 
brother could not help laughing at him, he looked such 
a queer goblin creature. 

“ Doan’t be vrothered, Tom/’ whined Harry, taking 
advantage of his relenting — “ it’s your last night at 
home.” 

Tom winced — they were always throwing it at him, 
his “ last night.” 

“ Lucky fur you as it is — and unlucky fur me — and 
unlucky fur Worge if this is the way you're going on 
when I’m a -gone. Where’ve you bin? ” 

“ Only over to Bucksteep, Tom.” 

“ But wot have you done wud your clothes? ” 

“ Mus’ Archie’s got ’em.” 

“ Wot d’you mean? Spik the truth.” 

“It’s Bible truth. Willie and Peter Sinden and Bob 
Pix and me thought as how we’d bathe by moonlight in 
Bucksteep pond, and Mus’ Archie’s hoame on leave, and 
he wur walking wud his young woman in the paddock, 
and he sawed us, and took all our cloathes whiles we wur 
in the water. He thought as how he’d got us then, and 
that we couldn’t git away wudout our cloathes. But 
he’s found he’s wrong, fur we climbed up the far bank 
into Throws Wood, and ran hoame.” 

“ You mean to tell me as you’ve come in your skin all 
the way from Bucksteep?” 

Harry nodded, and laughed at some Puckish memory. 
“ Well, all I wonder is as you wurn’t took and put in 


TOM 53 

gaol — you would have been if policeman had met you — 
and you’ll catch your death of cold.” 

He pulled off his coat and most ungently bundled 
Harry into it. Then another idea struck him. He 
groaned, and scratched his head. 

“ I must write to Mus’ Archie this wunst.” 

“ Why, Tom?” 

“ To git your clothes back. We can’t afford to lose a 
good suit of clothes.” 

He turned wearily to the cupboard, and took out a 
penny ink-bottle, a pen, and some cheap writing-paper. 
“ Tom — he’ll know it wur me if you write.” 

“ I can’t help that — we must git your clothes back.” 

“ But they were only old cloathes.” 

“ Adone-do, Harry. We can’t afford to lose so much 
as an old shirt. Oh, you’re vrothering me to madness 
wud your doings.” 

He began to scrawl in his slow, round hand. He was 
no letter-writer, and found it difficult to put his request 
into words. He also wanted to plead for Harry, to 
explain a little of his own hard case, and ask that the 
matter might be allowed to stop at the scare and scolding 
Harry had received, for “ I am joining up to-morrow, 
and it is very hard to leave them all like this, from your 
obedient servant Thomas Beatup.” 

Harry watched him, bobbing over the sheet, every 
now and then passing his tongue over his lips in the 
agony of composition. Then suddenly he slid towards 
him across the table and put his arm round his neck. 
Tom shook him off. 

“ Git away.” 

“ I’m sorry I’m such a hemmed curse to you, Tom.” 

“ You’re a hemmed curse indeed. I ask you to be a 
man in my plaace, and you’re no more than a tedious 
liddle child.” 


54 


THE FOUR ROADS 


A sudden sense of the hopelessness of it all came over 
him — the net in which he struggled, in which he was 
being dragged away from those he could help and love. 
He dropped his head in his hands. Harry stood for a 
moment awestruck beside him, a grotesque figure with 
Tom’s coat hanging over his bare thighs. Then he 
turned and crept away to bed. 

The clock struck nine, and Tom lifted his head. He 
was utterly weary, but he knew that if he did not take 
his letter over to Bucksteep to-night he would not have 
time in the morning. There was no good leaving it to 
other hands to deliver, for he felt that his mother would 
resent its humble tone, and perhaps send instead an angry 
demand which, by rousing Mus’ Archie’s rage, might end 
by landing Harry before the Senlac Bench. So he put on 
his father’s driving coat, which hung in the passage and 
smelt of manure and stale spirits, and let himself out into 
the soft, throbbing darkness, lit only by a few dim stars 
of the Plough. 


12 

Bucksteep Manor was the smaller kind of country- 
house, smuggled away from the cross-roads in a larch 
plantation, with a tennis lawn at the back, and a more 
open view swinging over a copsed valley to Rushlake 
Green. It had once been a farmhouse, but a wing had 
been added in modern style, and inside, the low raftering 
had been swept away, so that when Tom stood in the 
dimly-lighted hall, which had once been the kitchen, he 
could look up to a ceiling dizzily high to his sag-roofed 
experience. 

The Lambs were the aristocracy of Dallington, a 
neighbourhood strikingly empty of “ society ” in the 
country-house sense. They had themselves been yeo- 


TOM 


man farmers a couple of generations back, and the pres- 
ent squire still interested himself shamefacedly in Buck- 
steep’s hundred acres. The Beatups had but little truck 
with the Manor ; precarious yeomen, no rents or dues 
demanded intercourse, and Mus’ Beatup had often been 
heard to say that some folks were no better than other 
folks, for all their airs and acres. 

Tom had given his letter to a rustling parlourmaid, 
and stood meekly waiting for an answer, his large bovine 
eyes blinking with sleepiness. From an adjoining room 
came the throaty music of a gramophone, playing: 

“ When we wind up the Watch on the Rhine 
Everything will be Potsdam fine ...” 

There was girls’ laughter, too — probably Miss Marian 
Lamb and Mus’ Archie’s intended — and every now and 
then he heard Mrs. Lamb’s voice go rocketing up. He 
did not feel envious of all this jollity, neither did it grate 
upon him; he just stood and waited under the shaded 
lamps of the hall, and had nearly fallen asleep on his 
legs when suddenly the door opened, with a flood of 
light and noise, and shut again behind Mus’ Archie. 

“ Good evening, Beatup. Sorry to have kept you wait- 
ing. I couldn’t make this out at first — had no idea your 
young brother was one of the culprits to-night, or I 
shouldn’t have played that trick on ’em.” 

“ It doan’t matter, sir. Harry desarved it. It’s only 
as we can’t afford to lose the clothes.” 

“ No, no, of course not. Come with me and pick his 
out of the pile, and you can take them home.” 

“ Thank you, Mus’ Archie.” 

He followed young Lamb into a little gun-room open- 
ing on the hall, and was able to pick out Harry’s rather 
bobtail toilet from a muddle of Sinden and Pix raiment. 
“ That’s all, is it? Wan’t anything to wrap ’em in?” 




56 


THE FOUR ROADS 


“ No, sir, it aun’t worth it. Thank you kindly for 
letting me have the things.” 

“ There was never any question of you not having 
them. I’ve no right to keep ’em. So you’re joining 
up to-morrow? ” 

He was in uniform, but without his belt. Somehow to 
Tom he seemed a burlier, browner man than the young 
squire whom before the war he used to see out hunting, 
or shooting, or driving girls in his car. 

“ Yes, I’m joining up, as they say.” 

“ You don’t seem over-pleased about it.” 

“ I aun’t, particular.” 

“ Well, I’m not going to tell you it’s the grandest job on 
earth, and that all the chaps out there are having the 
time of their lives. It wouldn’t be true, though I expect 
the Tribunal told you so.” 

“Yessir; they said as if they were only ten years 
younger they’d all be in it.” 

“ Of course they did. Well, I’ve been out there, and 
I’ve seen . . . But never mind ; you’ll find that out for 
yourself, Beatup. However, I’ll say this much — it isn’t 
a nice job, or a grand job, or even a good job ; but it’s a 
job that’s got to be done, and when it’s done we’ll like 
to think that Sussex chaps helped do it.” 

Tom’s heart warmed a little towards Mus’ Archie. 
He was making him feel as he had felt when Bill Putland 
said, ” We’re all eighteenth Sussex hereabouts.” 

“ It aun’t the going as un vrother me, if it wurn’t fur 
leaving Worge. I’m fretted as the plaace ull land at the 
auctioneer’s if I’m long away. You see, I’ve always done 
most of the work, in my head as well as wud my hands. 
Faather, he aun’t a healthy man, and the others aun’t 
much help nuther. There’s only Harry lik to be any use, 
and he’s such an unaccountable limb of wickedness — 
for ever at his tricks — to-night’s only one cf them.” 


TOM 57 

“ Perhaps he’ll pull himself together and work for 
Worge when he sees you’ve gone to fight for it.” 

This was new light on the matter for Tom. Hitherto 
he had always thought of himself as deserting Worge in 
its hour of need — it had never occurred to him that his 
going was the going of a champion, not of a traitor. 

“ Maybe it’s as you say, Mus’ Archie. Leastways, 
we’ll hope so.” 

They were in the hall again now, and the gramophone 
was singing in its spooky voice. “ You called me Baby 
Doll a year ago.” Tom slowly turned the handle of the 
front door, sidling out on to the step. 

“ Thank you for the clothes, Mus’ Archie. I’ll try and 
talk some sense into Harry before I go.” 

“ Good night, Beatup, and good luck to you. I ex- 
pect I’ll see some more of you in the near future. All 
the chaps round here seem to be drafted into the eight- 
eenth. Bill Putland will be in our little crowd, and 
Jerry Sumption — there’ll be quite a Dallington set at 
Waterheel.” 

“ I hope I’ll be with you, Mus’ Archie.” 

“ I hope you will, Beatup. Good night.” 

“ Good night, sir.” 

The door shut, and he was out in the drive, where the 
larches swung against the moon. 

Archie Lamb went back into the drawing-room, and 
put a new record on the gramophone. 

“ Queer chap, Beatup,” he said to his mother. “ I don’t 
know how he’ll shape. He looks strong and steady, but 
I should say about as smart as a mangold-wurzel.” 

13 

Tom swung along the dim road, where the shadows 
ran before him. The new-risen moon looked over the 


58 


THE FOUR ROADS 


hedge, an amber disc just past the full, swimming against 
the wind from Satanstown. In the heart of the wind 
seemed still to beat the pulse of those far-off guns, the 
ghost of their day-long thunder. Over and over in his 
mind Tom turned his new thought — that he was going to 
fight for Worge. 

In a quarter of an hour he had come to Sunday Street. 
He could see the moonlight lying like frost on the south- 
ward slope of the roofs, and the windows of the Bethel 
were ghostly with it, as they stared away to the marshes. 
The Bethel alone seemed awake in the little huddle of 
sleeping cottages — it had a strange look of watchfulness 
and waiting, its gaunt Georgian windows never had that 
comfortable blinking air of the cottage lattices . . . 
Tom did not like the Bethel at night. 

He looked across the road to the Horselunges, where 
Mr. Sumption lived. A crack of light showed under the 
blind of the minister's room, and Tom's heart gave a 
little thump of self-reproach, for he had not till then 
thought of saying good-bye to him. He had not seen 
much of Mr. Sumption lately, and had been too much 
absorbed in his own concerns to think of him, but now 
he made up his mind to call and say good-bye ; it was 
past ten o'clock and he was very tired and sleepy, never- 
theless he walked up to the door of the Horselunges and 
knocked. 

Mrs. Hubble was in bed, as the hour demanded, so the 
door was opened by her lodger. 

“Hello, Tom. Anything the matter? Do they want 
me at Worge ? " 

Mr. Sumption was always childishly eager for some 
demand on his pastoral ministrations, a demand which 
was seldom made, as he had a disruptive bedside manner 
and the funds of his chapel did not admit of the doles 


TOM 59 

which made sick Dallington people endure the consola- 
tions of the Church. 

“ No, thank you, they doan’t. I’ve just come to say 
good-bye.” 

The minister’s forehead clouded — 

“ Oh, you’ve remembered me at last, have you? 
Thought it just as well not to forget old friends before 
you go off to make new ones. Come in.” 

Tom, who had expected this greeting, followed Mr. 
Sumption upstairs into the room which he called his 
study, but which had few points of difference from any 
cottage living-room in Sunday Street. There was a 
frayed carpet with a lot of dirt trodden into it, and a 
sun-sucked wall-paper adhering as closely as possible to 
walls complicate of beams and bulges. A solitary book- 
shelf supported Jessica s First Prayer , Edwin s Trial or 
The Little Christian Witness , and kindred works, cheek- 
by-jowl with Burton’s Four Last Things and a cage of 
white mice. There was another cage hanging in the 
window, containing a broken-winged thrush which the 
pastor, after the failure of many anathemas, had bought 
from one of those mysterious gangs of small boys which 
prowl round villages. An old, old cat sat before the 
empty grate, too decrepit to make more than one attempt 
a day on the thrush or the mice, and now purring wheez- 
ily in the intervals of scratching a cankered ear. 

On the table was a wild, unwieldy parcel, from whose 
bursting sides the contents were already beginning to 
ooze forth. 

“ I’m packing a parcel for Jerry,” said the minister. 
“ Td just finished when you knocked.” 

“ It looks as if it was coming undone,” said Tom. 

“ So it does ” — and Mr. Sumption glanced depre- 
catingly at his handiwork. “ If only I had some sealing- 
wax . . . but the shop’s shut.” 


60 


THE FOUR ROADS 


“ It’ll be open to-morrow,” said Tom, and pictured 
Thyrza pulling up the blind and dusting the salmon-tins 
in the window . . . long after he had gone to catch the 
early train from Hailsham. 

“ Well, to-morrow’s time enough, as I can’t post it 
before then. It ud be a pity for anything to get 
lost. There’s three shillings’ worth of things in that 
parcel.” 

“ Have you had any more letters from Jerry? ” 

“ Yes, I had one yesterday ” — no need to tell Tom 
there had been no others — “ He wants chocolate and 
cigarettes, and I put in a tin of cocoa besides, and some 
little squares to make soup of. He’ll be unaccountable 
pleased.” 

“ How’s he gitting on ? ” 

“ Valiant. He likes being along of the other lads. 
The only thing that worrits him is your sister.” 

“My sister?” 

“ Yes, your sister Ivy. Seemingly she never answered 
a postcard he wrote her ten days back, and you knows 
he’s unaccountable set on Ivy.” 

“ It aun’t no use, Mus’ Sumption. Ivy’s got no thought 
for him, I’m certain sure, and he’s only wasting time over 
her.” 

The minister’s comely face darkened, and he cracked 
his fingers once or twice. 

“ It’s a pity, a lamentable pity. That boy of mine’s 
crazy on Ivy Beatup. Are you sure she doesn’t care 
about him, Tom? ” 

“ Well, who knows wot a gal thinks ? I can only put 
two and two together. But seemingly if she’d cared 
she’d have answered his postcard.” 

“ Could you put in a word for him? ” 

Young Beatup shook his head — 

“ I woan’t meddle. If Ivy doan’t care I can’t maake 


TOM 61 

her, and I reckon mother’s unaccountable set against it 
too.” 

He had said the wrong thing. Mr. Sumption’s eyes 
became like burning pits. He swung his hands up and 
cracked them like a pistol. 

“ Set against it, is she? Set against my Jerry? May- 
be he isn’t good enough for her — a clergyman’s son for a 
farmer’s daughter. 

“ I never said naun of that,” mumbled Tom uneasily, 
remembering his mother’s reference to “ gipsy muck.” 
“ It’s I as might be set against it,” continued the 
minister. “ I tell you that boy’s been bred and cut above 
your sister. I never sent him to a board school along 
of farmers’ children — I taught him myself, everything I 
learned at college. He’d know as much I do if he 
hadn’t forgotten it. Yet I’m not proud; I know the boy 
wants your sister Ivy and ull do something silly if he 
can’t get her, so when he writes to me, ‘ Where’s Ivy ? 
Find out why she didn’t answer my postcard, and tell her 
I’ll go mad if she doesn’t take some notice of me ’ — why, 
then, I do my best — and get told my son’s not good 
enough for your father’s daughter.” 

“ I never told you any such thing,” said Tom dog- 
gedly, “ but I woan’t spik to Ivy. She knows her own 
business best. If I were you I’d tell Jerry straight as 
no good ull come of his going after her. She doan’t want 
him — I’m certain sure of that.” 

The pastor’s wrath had died down into something 
more piteous. 

“ I daresay you’re right, Tom, and maybe I did wrong 
to speak like that. After all, I was only a blacksmith till 
the Lord called me away ... I pray that He may not 
require my boasting of me.” 

“ Well, I’m unaccountable sorry about Ivy being lik 
that, but I thought it better to spik plain.” 


62 


THE FOUR ROADS 


Mr. Sumption sat down rather heavily at the table. 

“ O Lord, how shall I tell Jerry? If I tell him he’ll do 
something wild, sure as he’s Jerry Sumption; ” 

“ Doan’t tell him. He’ll find out for himself soon 
enough.” 

Mr. Sumption groaned. 

“ Tom Beatup,” he said slowly, “ I reckon you think 
I’m a faithless, unprofitable steward so to set my heart 
on human flesh and blood. But you’ll understand a bit 
of what I feel . . . some day, when you’re the father 
of a son.” 


14 

The pale morning ray came slanting over the sky 
from Harebeating towards the last stars. Slowly the 
trees and hedges loomed out against the trembling yellow 
pools of the dawn. Colours woke in the fields, soft hazy 
greens, and blues and greys that ran together like smoke 
. . . ponds began to gleam among the spinneys, discs 
of mirrored sky, that from lustreless white became glassy 
yellow, then kindled from glass to fire, then smouldered 
from fire to rust. 

Tom saw the window square light up and frame the 
familiar picture of a life’s mornings — the oast-house, the 
lombardy poplar topping the barn, the little patch of 
distant fields seen between the oast and the jutting farm- 
house gable. The bed was pulled up close to the 
window, to allow of the door being opened, and he could 
lie on his side and look straight out at the loved common 
things which perhaps he might never see just so again. 

It all looked very quiet, and rather cold, and the early 
sunless light gave it a peculiar lifelessness, as if it was 
something painted, or cut in cardboard. Even Tom was 
conscious of its cold, dreamlike quality; he always said 


TOM 


63 


that “the yard looked corpsy at break o’ day.” Then 
the distant view of little fields suddenly swam into 
golden light, as a long finger of sunlight stroked the barn- 
roofs, then stabbed in at the window, throwing a shaft of 
dancing golden motes across the room. Tom rose, 
climbed out of bed over Zacky, and in about three square 
feet of floor space shaved and dressed. Then he went 
downstairs, unlocked the house door and stole out to his 
last morning’s work. 

No one was about; it was not till more than an hour 
later that the two antique farm-hands, Elphick and 
Juglery, came up from Worge Cottages. By that time 
Tom had milked the cows, mixed the chicken food, and 
driven the horses down to Forges field. He gave the two 
unskilled labourers their orders for the day as if he ex- 
pected to be there to see them carried out. By that 
time Ivy was hunting for eggs, and Mrs. Beatup was 
struggling with the kitchen fire, while Mus’ Beatup, in 
practical, unlearned mood, had gone to the Sunk field to 
inspect the ewes. 

As Ivy came out of the hen-house and crossed the 
yard, cheery, healthy, blowsy, with eggs in a bowl, Tom 
had a sudden thought of giving her Mr. Sumption’s 
message. But he held his tongue. He had meant what 
he said when he told the minister he was not going to 
meddle. He had long been convinced of the fact that 
his sister knew her own business; besides, Jerry . . . 
that lousy gipsy chap . . . Pastor might say he was 
getting on valiant, but all Dallington knew that he had 
been given seven days C.B. within a week of his joining. 

So, with nothing for Ivy but a nod, Tom went in to 
breakfast. Time was short, but the breakfast was still 
in a rudimentary state. Mrs. Beatup fought with the 
kitchen fire among whorls of smoke, while Nell, coughing 
pathetically, laid the table. Harry in a fit of brotherly 


64 


THE FOUR ROADS 


love was cleaning Tom’s best boots ready for his journey 
to Lewes — no one ever went to Lewes in any but Sunday 
clothes. 

“Oh, is that you, Tom? I hope as you aun’t in a 
hurry. This fire’s bewitched. Nell, give your brother 
a cut off the loaf. You’d better git started, Tom, or 
you’ll lose your train.” 

So Tom’s last breakfast at Worge was eaten in con- 
fusion and mess, the family dropping in one by one for 
cuts off the loaf or helpings of cold bacon spotted with 
large blisters of grease. Last of all the breakfast arrived, 
in the shape of the tea-pot, and a special boiled egg for 
Tom. He was not able to do more than gulp down the 
egg and scald himself with the tea. Then it was time to 
go. He had already tied up a few little things in a 
handkerchief — a razor, a piece of soap, an old frosted 
Christmas card which for some obscure reason he treas- 
ured — so there was nothing to do but to say good-bye 
and beat it for Hailsham, a good seven miles. 

Mus’ Beatup put down his tea-cup and looked solemn. 

“ Well, good-bye, my lad. I reckon you’ve got to go. 
Everyone’s off to fight now, seemingly, so I suppose you 
must do wot others do. Not that I think so much of 
this war as some folks seem to — it’s bin going on nigh 
two years now, and I can’t see as we’re any of us a penny 
the better off. Howsumdever . . .” 

“ He’s going to stop it,” said Nell, her face pink. 

“ Ho, is he? Well, I’ve no objection. Maybe I’ll write 
you a letter, Tom, when Maudie calves.” 

“ I’d be much obliged if you would, faather, and tell 
me how the wheat does this year, and them new oats by 
the Street.” 

“ Good-bye, Tom,” said Harry. “ I shall miss you 
unaccountable.” 


TOM 


65 

“ And I’ll miss you, too,” said Zacky, “ but there’ll 
be more room in the bed.” 

Tom kissed them sheepishly all round, then walked 
out of the door without a word. 

He was in the yard, when he heard footsteps creaking 
after him, and turned round to see his mother. 

“ Wait a bit, Tom,” she panted; “ I’ll go wud you to 
the geate.” 

He was surprised, but it did not strike him to say so. 
They walked down the drive together almost in silence, 
the boy hanging his head. Mrs. Beatup sniffed and 
choked repeatedly. 

“ Doan’t go near those Germans, Tom,” she said, 
when they came to a standstill. “If you do, you’ll be 
killed for certain sure.” 

“ I’ll go where I’m put, surelye,” said Tom gloomily. 

“Well, be careful, that’s all. Kip well behind the 
other lads, and doan’t go popping your head over walls 
or meddling wud cannons. And kip your feet dry, Tom, 
and doan’t git into temptation.” 

“ I promise, mother,” he mumbled against her neck, and 
they kissed each other many times before she let him go. 

The Rifle Volunteer looked down from his sign, where 
he stood in the grey uniform and mutton-chop whiskers 
of an earlier dispensation, and stared at the stocky, 
shambling little figure that trudged its unwilling way to 
sacrifice — past Worge Cottages, stewing in the sunshine 
like pippins, past Egypt Farm (which Bill Putland would 
leave later and more conveniently in his father’s dog- 
cart), past the shop, with a glance half shy, half be- 
seeching, at the drawn blinds, past the willow pond, out 
of Sunday Street, into the long yellow road that led to 
the unsought, undesired adventure. 


PART II: JERRY 


i 

M RS. BEATUP’S tears ran down her face as she 
hurried back up the drive, but she wiped them 
vigorously away with her apron, and had nothing 
but her red eyes to show when she entered the kitchen. 
Everyone had gone, except Ivy and Nell. The former 
had not finished her hearty breakfast, the latter was 
packing her books for school, and some sort of a wrangle 
was going on between them. Mrs. Beatup heard Nell 
call Ivy “ vulgar ” just as she came into the room. Ivy 
laughed, truly a vulgar performance with her mouth full. 

“ Now, you two gals, doan’t you start quarrelling just 
when you brother’s a-gone ; maybe fur ever.” 

“ We aun’t quarrelling,” said Ivy. “ I’ve told her she’s 
sweet on parson, that’s all.” 

“All!” sniffed Nell. “Maybe you think it’s nothing 
to have your vulgar mind making out my — my friend- 
ship with Mr. Poullett-Smith’s the same as yours with — 
with — anyone that ull let you make sheep’s eyes at 
him.” 

“ Nell ! ” cried her mother. “ For shaum ! ” 

“ Well, I don’t care ” — the younger girl’s anger had 
been roused by many coarse flicks — “ everyone talks about 
Ivy’s goings-on.” 

“ I doan’t care if they do,” said Ivy cavernously in 
her tea-cup. “ Reckon it’s cos they’re jealous of me 
gitting the boys.” 

“ Well, Ivy,” said Mrs. Beatup, “ I doan’t hold wud 

66 


JERRY 67 

your goings-on, nuther ; but anyway you’re use- 
ful.” 

“ I’m earning money, though,” said Nell ; “ at least 
I shall be when my third year’s up.” 

“ And how soon ull that be, I’d lik to know? There 
you go, out all day, when you might be helping us at 
home, and not a penny to show fur it.” 

“ Mother, I’ve told you again and again — why won’t 
you understand? — I’m being given lessons in exchange 

for those I give myself, and ” 

“ Lessons ! A girl turned seventeen ! I call it lament- 
able. I’d a-done wud my schooling at twelve.” 

“ But you know I have to pass an exam ...” 

“ I doan’t see no ‘ have ’ in it. Better kip at hoame 
and help me wud the cooking. Out all day and bring 

home no money ! I doan’t call that ” 

“ Well, I’m off,” said Ivy, getting up and wiping her 
mouth. “You two are lik a couple of barndoor cocks, 
walking round and round each other. I’ve summat 
better to do — I’ve the passage to scrub ” — and she took 
her sacking apron off the nail. 

“Where’s Zacky?” asked Mrs. Beatup. “Has he 
started for school ? ” 

“ Yes, he’s gone wud the Sindens.” 

“ And Harry?” 

Ivy laughed. “ Oh, Harry’s along of faather, in the 
Sunk field — unaccountable good and hardworking to- 
day, because Tom’s a-gone ; seemingly, he’d sooner please 
him now he aun’t here to see than when he was here 
fretting his heart out over Harry’s lazy bones.” 

“ Well, I’m glad as someone remembers my poor boy’s 
gone, and is lik to be killed.” 

Mrs. Beatup’s tears burst out afresh, but Ivy com- 
forted her with a kiss and a clap and a few cheery words, 
and soon had her interested in the various bootstains 



68 


THE FOUR ROADS 


on the passage-floor. ‘'Cow-dung, that’s faather; and 
horse-dung, that’s Tom; and sheep-dung, that’s Juglery; 

and that miry clay’s jest Zacky spannelling. ...” 

• 

2 

Nell put on her hat and coat and started for school. 
A neat, shabby little figure, with her town hat pulled 
down over her soft hair, she walked quickly between 
dust-powdered hedges to Brownbread Street, panting a 
little, because she was anaemic, and also because she was 
still a trifle indignant. Nell did not view life and the 
War as her family viewed them. Her different education 
had made them not quite such matters of bread-and- 
cheese. She alone at Worge had felt the humiliation — 
as distinct from the inconvenience — of Tom’s conscrip- 
tion. She had always despised him because he did not 
volunteer during the early stages of the War, and when 
the Conscription Act came into force she despised him 
still more for his appeal to the Tribunal. She felt that 
she could never think proudly of him, knowing how un- 
willingly he had gone, knowing that he cared for nothing 
except leaving Worge, that he never thought of the great 
cause of righteousness he was to fight for, or understood 
the mighty issues of his unwilling warfare. 

The rest of the familv were all of a block. To her 

* 

mother the War was merely a matter of prices and scar- 
cities, to her father it was drink restrictions and the 
closing of public-houses, to Ivy it was picture postcards 
and boys in khaki, to Harry the unwilling performance 
of tasks which would otherwise have been done by more 
efficient hands, to Zacky the obscure manoeuvres of a 
gang of small boys whose imaginations had been touched 
by militarism. To Nell alone belonged the fret and 
anxiety of the times, the shock of bad news, the struggle 


JERRY 69 

of ineffectual small labours to win her a place in the 
great woe. 

To-day she was early for school, as she had meant to 
be, for at the church she stopped and sat down in the 
porch. St. Wilfred’s, Brownbread Street, was only a 
chapel-of-ease under the mother church of Dallington. 
It was new-built of sandstone, an unfortunate symbol of 
that Rock against which the gates of hell shall not pre- 
vail. The interior, glimpsed through the open door, was 
dim and mediaeval, the first effect due to the deep tones 
of the stained-glass windows, where the saints wore robes 
of crimson and sapphire and passional violet, and the 
latter to the several dark oil paintings, and the thick gilt 
tracery of the screen, through which the altar showed 
richly coloured, with one winking red light before it. 

The curate-in-charge of Brownbread Street was of 
mediaeval tendencies, and did his best, both in service 
and sermon, to transport his congregation from the wood- 
bine-age to the age of pilgrimages and monasteries, with 
the result that, with unmediaeval licence, they sought 
illicit and heretical refreshment in Georgian Bethels and 
Victorian Tabernacles, where they could sing good Moody 
and Sankey tunes, instead of treacherous Gregorians and 
wobbling Plainsong. 

But Nell loved the low, soft, creeping tones of 
Gregory’s mode, loved the dimness, the mystery, the 
faint echo of Sarum . . . and if in her love was a 
personal element which she denied, the church was not 
less a refuge from the coarse frustrations of her every- 
day life, such as the Forge was to Mr. Sumption and the 
Shop had been to Tom. 

To-day the priest was at the altar, saying the Last 
Gospel. Nell could just see him from where she sat. 
He would be out in a couple of minutes. She watched 
him glide off into the shadows, then she rose and walked 


70 


THE FOUR ROADS 


down to the little wicket-gate, where the path from the 
porch met the path from the vestry. There was more 
colour in her cheeks than usual. 

Now and then she looked anxiously across the road at 
the schoolhouse clock, where the large hand was creeping 
swiftly towards the hour. From the clock her eyes 
slewed round to the vestry door. At last the handle 
shook, and out came Mr. Poullett-Smith, walking hur- 
riedly, with his cassock flapping round his legs. He did 
not seem to see Nell till he had nearly walked into her. 

“ Oh — er — good morning, Miss Beatup. I beg your 
pardon.” 

“ Good morning, Mr. Poullett-Smith. I — I wanted to 
tell you Pm so sorry I haven’t finished that book you 
lent me. Pm afraid Pve kept it a terrible time.” 

Her words came with a rush, blurred faintly in the 
last of a Sussex accent, and her eyes were fixed on his 
face with an almost childish eagerness which he could 
scarcely fail to notice. 

“ Oh, please don’t trouble. Keep the book as long as 
you like — the Sermons of St. Gregory, isn’t it? ” 

“Yes — I think they’re wonderful,” breathed Nell, 
hoping he would never know how difficult she found them 
to understand. 

“ They are indeed, and so stimulating.” 

The Rev. Henry Poullett-Smith was a tall man, with 
a long nose, a slight stoop, and a waxy brownish skin 
that made him look like one of his own altar candles. 
As he spoke to Nell, he kept on glancing up the street, 
and when a girl on a bicycle came round the corner, he 
moved a few steps out into the road and took off his hat. 

“ Good morning, Miss Lamb.” 

Marian Lamb, who was in Red Cross uniform, jumped 
off her bicycle and shook hands with him before she 
shook hands with Nell Beatup. 


JERRY 


71 


“ On your way to the hospital, I see.” 

“ Yes. I’m on morning duty this week.” 

“ Do you prefer that to the afternoons? ” 

“ Not in summer. I do in winter, though.” 

Nell felt ignored and insulted. She made no effort to 
join in this sprightly dialogue. There was something in 
the curate’s manner towards the other girl which seemed 
to stab her through with a sense of her inferiority, with 
memories of the coarse, muddling life of Worge to which 
she belonged. It was not that he showed more courtesy, 
but he seemed to show more freedom ... he was more 
at his ease with one of his own class. 

Her cheeks burned. Of course she was not his equal. 
He might talk to her and lend her books, but he did it 
only out of kindness ; probably looked upon it as a 
superior form of parish relief — doled the books as he 
doled blankets. . . . She shrugged away, and the move- 
ment made him at once turn to her with a remark : 

“ Have you been over the hospital, Miss Beatup? ” 

“ No — I’ve never had time . . . and I must hurry off 
now. Good morning ! ” 

Even as she spoke she noticed that her voice was thick 
and drawly, unlike Miss Lamb’s sharp, clear tones. She 
gripped her satchel and hurried across the road to the 
schoolhouse. 

3 

During the next few days the most remarkable sight 
at Worge was Harry’s industriousness. For nearly a 
week he rose at five, fed the pigs and helped with the 
milking, and during the whole day he was available for 
carting, digging, dunging, or anything else he had for- 
merly fled from. He helped Elphick spray the young 
fuggles down by Forges and the Sunk Field, he took a 
cartload of roots over to Three Cups Corner, he groomed 


72 


THE FOUR ROADS 


the horses and plaited their manes, he compelled Zacky 
with threats of personal violence to spend Saturday after- 
noon scaring birds from the gooseberries, instead of, with 
six other little boys, carrying out an enveloping move- 
ment on Punnetts Town, with three-ha’pence to spend on 
sweets in the captured citadel. On the occasion of Mus’ 
Beatup’s next lapse, he stalled the cows and doctored the 
mare, and also, with much foresight, took off and hid his 
father’s boots, which prevented both his going to bed in 
them and his throwing them at his wife. 

It would have been well if this virtuous state could 
have lasted till the hay harvest. This was early, for 
there was a spell of heat in May, and the fields were soon 
parched. The air was full of the smell of ripe hayseed, 
of the baking glumes of the oats, of the hot, sickly stew 
of elder-flower and meadowsweet. Along the Four 
Roads eddies of dust flew from under the wheels and 
caked the grass and fennel-heads beside the way, and in 
the ruts of the little lanes the bennet and rest-harrow 
sprouted, with the thick-stalked sprawly pig-nut, and 
ragged robin. Unfortunately, all this scent and heat made 
Harry remember a wood over by Cade Street, where he 
had once lain and watched the moon rise rusty beyond 
Lobden’s House. It was unfortunate that he had such 
a memory, for it had more than once been his undoing. 
Somewhere under Harry’s skin, mixed with the sluggish 
currents of his country blood, was a strain of poetry and 
imagination. He cared nothing for books, nothing for 
beauty, nothing for music (except, perhaps, when they 
sang “ Diadem ” in the Bethel at dusk), and yet every 
now and then something would pull him from the earth 
he toiled on — a thing he was unaware of three weeks out 
of the four, seeing only the sods cleaving together — 
something would call him from meadow-hills that swept 
up their b roomy cones to the sky, an adventure would 


JERRY 


73 


call from the Four Roads, a longing would call from the 
moon . . . and off he would go to Stunts Green, to 
Starnash, Oxbottom’s Town, or Burnt Kitchen — just as, 
after a sober week, Mus’ Beatup would go off to the 
Rifle Volunteer. 

His promise to Tom had made him resist the cruder 
temptations of ratting Sindens or bird’s-nesting Kad- 
wells ; but now it seemed to pull the other way. His 
brother was the only person he was in any degree afraid 
of, and he was safe at Waterheel, no longer his father’s 
vicar, waiting with barnyard discipline for the truant’s 
return. 

So Harry went off to that wood at Cade Street, and 
spent the night there, in a hollow tree, watching the big 
yellow stars shuddering above the ash-boughs like 
candles in the wind, and sleeping with his head in a soft 
mush of last year’s leaves, that sent him back with his 
cheeks all smeary, and his hair caked with leaf- 
mast. 

That was the day of the haycutting, when Mus’ Beatup 
and Juglery and Elphick sweated with bent backs in the 
field. Worge possessed a horse-rake, but the cutting had 
all to be done by hand, and the men’s backs ached and 
scorched in the sun, and their sweat dropped on their 
scythes. This labour, as was only natural, started in 
Mus’ Beatup a fearful thirst, and that night was “ one 
of his bad nights ” — one of the worst, in fact, for he 
threw the candlestick at his wife as well as his boots, 
and would not let her come to bed, so that she had to 
sleep with Ivy and Nell. 

Harry felt rather ashamed, and tried hard to atone the 
next day by working himself sick. Mrs. Beatup and Ivy 
helped too, since haymaking was the one kind of field 
work which the women did not feel it derogatory to 
perform. Ivy was a whacking girl, nearly as good as a 


74 


THE FOUR ROADS 


man ; but Mus’ Beatup would never have dreamed of 
asking her to help fill Tom’s empty place. If town girls- 
thought so little of themselves as to enrol for farm work, 
that was no concern of his, but he was hemmed if he’d 
have his wife and daughter meddling with anything be- 
yond the fowl-house, and as for employing other women 
whose dignity mattered less to him — and, apparently, to 
themselves — he’d sooner Worge went to the auctioneer’s,, 
just to teach the government a lesson. 

4 

So Worge muddled through its haymaking, and then 
the shearing; and Harry was sometimes idle and some- 
times industrious, and Mus’ Beatup was sometimes drunk 
and sometimes sober. The oats in the Street Field and 
the field at the back of the Rifle Volunteer were slowly 
parching to the colour of dust, though thick green 
shadows rippled in them, and told how far off still the 
harvest was. They were spring-sown potato-oats, chosen 
by Tom on account of their vigorous constitution, though 
otherwise not very well suited to the clays of Sunday 
Street. He had manured them at their sowing with rape- 
cake, nursed their first sproutings, and now in every letter 
enquired after their progress. “ Keep an eye on them, 
dear father, for the Lord’s sake, and do not let them stand 
after they’re ripe, or they will shed there seeds for cer- 
tain sure, being potatos.” 

Tom had been some weeks now at Waterheel in the 
Midlands, a private in the Sussex Regiment, with an 
elaborate and mystifying address, which his family found 
the greatest difficulty in cramming into the envelope. 
They did not write to him as often as he wrote to them, 
in spite of the fact that they were six to one. But then 
they were not far from home, dreaming of the old fields, 
longing for the old faces. 


JERRY 


75 


On the whole though, Tom was happy enough. He 
found his new life strange, but not totally uncongenial. 
A comfortable want of imagination made it possible for 
him to put Worge out of mind, now that it was also out 
of sight, and he was among lads of his own age, old 
acquaintances some of them — Kadwell of Stilliands 
Tower, and two Viners from Satanstown, Bill Putland, 
Jerry Sumption. There was Mus’ Archie, too, with a 
nod and a kind word now and then to intensify that 
" feeling of Sussex chaps ” which was not quite such an 
uncommon one now ; and there was Mus’ Dixon, Mus’ 
Archie’s elder brother, who had lived in London and 
written for the papers before the War, and now used his 
sword to cut the leaves of books — so his orderly said — 
yet was a brave man none the less, and a good officer, 
though he hated the life as much as his brother 
loved it. 

The family at Worge were surprised to find that Tom’s 
best pal was Bill Putland. In Sunday Street he had had 
very little to do with the Squire’s cheeky chauffeur, and 
there had always been a gnawing rivalry between Egypt 
and Worge. But now that they had joined up together, 
and been drafted into the same company, sharing the 
same awkwardness and fumblings, a friendship sprang 
up between them, and thrived in the atmosphere of their 
common life. Putland was a much smarter recruit than 
Beatup, but this did not cause ill-feeling, for Bill did 
much to help Tom, passing on to him the tips he picked 
up so much more quickly than his friend, with the result 
that Tom got through the mangold-wurzel stage sooner 
than Mus’ Archie had expected. Tom on his side was 
humbly conscious of Bill’s superiority. “ He’s been bred 
up different from us,” he wrote home to Worge. “ You 
can see that by the way he talks and everything, and 
he’s a sharper chap than me by a long chalk. But he’s 
unaccountable good-hearted, and he helps me with my 


76 THE FOUR ROADS 

leathers after he’s done his own, for he’s a sight quicker 
than me.” 

Tom more often asked for news than he gave it. 
After all, life at Waterheel Camp did not consist of much 
besides drills and route-marchings, with relaxations at 
the Y.M.C.A. hut, and occasional visits to the town. 
No one at Worge would care to hear the daily doings of 
such a life, and still less were they likely to understand 
it. He was uneasily conscious of what his father would 
say about these things at the Rifle Volunteer. “ Took 
my boy away from his honest work, and all they do is to 
keep him forming fours and traipsing about the country 
and playing dominoes at the Y.M.C.A. That’s wot the 
Governmunt spends our money on,” etc., etc. And Tom 
was now soldier enough to resent any criticism of the 
Army from outside it. 

In other quarters though, it appeared he was not so 
reticent. After a while his family discovered that Thyrza 
Honey was hearing from him pretty regularly. More- 
over, one day Mrs. Beatup, buying candles, found Thyrza 
wearing a regimental button mounted as a brooch, and 
was told it was a gift fronTTom. 

“ He’s sweet on her,” said Ivy, when the news was 
told. 

“ Him — he’s just a bit of a boy,” said his mother. 

“ The Army maakes men unaccountable sudden.” 

“ Well, anyway, she’s four years older than he is, and 
wot he can see in her is more’n I can say.” 

“ She’s got a bit o’ money though,” said Mus’ Beatup. 
“ I shan’t put a spoke in his wheel if he wants to marry 
her.” 

“ Him marry! Wot are you thinking of, Ned? He’s 
only a bit of a boy, as I’ve told you. Besides, she aun’t 
got no looks; she’s just a plain dump of a woman, and 
a boy liks a pretty faace.” 


77 


JERRY 

“ Mrs. Honey’s middling pretty,” said Ivy, “ with her 
colour and teeth and all.” 

“ You’ve got queer notions of pretty. Why, only yes- 
terday Mrs. Sinden wur saying to me as she can’t think 
wot Sam Honey ever saw in Thyrza Shearne. And you 
can’t git naun out of her, she’s slow as a cow, and she 
looks at you lik a cow chewing the cud ...” 

Nell broke in — 

“You’re all taking it for granted that Mrs. Honey 
would have Tom if she was given the chance. Maybe 
he’d be quite safe even if he asked her.” 

“ Nonsense, my girl,” cried Mus’ Beatup. “ A woman 
ud taake any man as wur fool enough to ask her ; if a 
woman’s unwed you may reckon she’s never been asked.” 
Ivy laughed loudly at this, and Nell turned crimson. 

“ Women aren’t going quite so cheap as you think.” 

“ Oh, aun’t they ! — when it’s bin proved as there’s 
twice as many of ’em as there’s men. I tell you, when 
there’s a glut of turnips, the price goes down.” 

“ There aren’t twice as many women as men. Miss 

Goldsack was saying only the other day that ” 

“ And I tell you it’s bin proved as there are, and when 
the War’s over there’ll be more still, and they’ll be going 
about weeping and hollering and praying to the men to 
taake them.” 

“ They won’t. They’ll have something better to do. 

This War’s teaching women to work, and ” 

“ Work ! I wudn’t give a mouldy onion fur women’s 
work. ...” 

And so on, and so on. 

5 

Thyrza herself was a little surprised to hear so often 
from Tors, and the brooch was a piece of daring she had 
never expected. It is true that from time to time she 


78 


THE FOUR ROADS 


sent him presents of chocolate and cigarettes, but his 
letters were much more than an acknowledgment of these. 
They were not love-letters, but Thyrza knew that they 
contained more confidences than those he sent to Worge 
— she was familiar with all the common round of his 
day, from reveille to lights-out. He told her about the 
men he liked and those he didn’t, about his drills and 
fatigues, about his food and Cookie’s queer notions of a 
stew — Thyrza knew what was an “ army biscuit,” a 
“ choky,” a “ gor’ blimey,” and the number of stripes 
worn respectively by “ God Almighty,” “ swank ” and 
“ goat.” Scarcely a week passed without one of those 
thin yellowish envelopes, with the red triangle in the cor- 
ner, slipping under the shop door — addressed in smeary, 
indelible pencil, and smelling of woodbines. 

She noticed a growing assurance in his style — partly 
due, perhaps, to the friendliness of her replies, partly, 
no doubt, to the growing manhood in him. She had 
always looked on Tom as a kind, slow chap, with very 
little to say for himself, and not too much thinking going 
on either, but with an unaccountable good heart. Now 
she realised that the Army was smartening him up, giv- 
ing him confidence, enlarging his ideas. Thyrza was only 
a countrywoman herself, born within ten miles of where 
she lived now, but she did not fail to notice or to respect 
this growth in Tom. “ He’s gitting new ideas in his 
head, and he’s waking up a bit. I shan’t lik him the less 
for being readier wud his tongue, surelye.” 

One of the new ideas which got into Tom’s head at 
Waterheel was the desirability — indeed, the urgency — 
of having a “ girl.” All the chaps had girls — Bill Put- 
land wrote to Polly Sinden at Little Worge, though he 
had taken very little notice of her while he was at home ; 
Jerry Sumption wrote half-threatening, half-appealing 
scrawls to Ivy Beatup ; Kadwell and Viner had sweet- 


JERRY 


79 


hearts at the Foul Mile and the Trulilows — every eve- 
ning at the Y.M.C.A. a hundred indelible pencils travelled 
to and fro from tongue to paper in the service of that god 
who campaigns with the god of war, and occasionally 
snatches his victories. There was also the need to 
receive letters — a need which Tom had never felt before, 
but now ached in his breast, when at post-time he saw 
other men walk away tearing envelopes, while he stood 
empty-handed. Thyrza wrote more often and more fully 
than his mother, and he would answer quickly, to make 
her write again. So closer and closer between them was 
drawn that link of smudged envelopes and ruled note- 
paper, with their formalities of “ Your letter received 
quite safe,” and “ Hoping this finds you well, as it leaves 
me at present ” — till the chain was forged which should 
bind them for ever. 

Thyrza pondered this in her heart. She was used to 
much indefinite courtship, most of it just before lamp- 
time in her own little shop, with the prelude of a “ penn- 
’orth of bull’s-eyes for the children ” or “ a packet of 
Player’s, please.” She had also been definitely courted 
once or twice in her short widowhood — by Bourner of 
the Forge, a widower with five sturdy children, and 
Hearsfield of Mystole. She was a type of girl who, while 
appealing little to her fellow-women, who “ never cud see 
naun in Thyrza Honey,” yet had a definite attraction for 
men, by reason of that same softness and slowness for 
which her own sex despised her. She had no particular 
wish to marry again, and at the same time no particular 
objection. Her first marriage had not been so happy as 
to make her anxious to repeat it, but it had also lacked 
those elements of degradation which make a woman 
shrink from trusting herself a second time to a master. 
There was too much business and too much gossip in her 
life for her to feel her loneliness as a widow, and yet she 


80 


THE FOUR ROADS 


sometimes craved for the little child which had died at 
birth two years ago — she “ cud do w T ud a child,” she some- 
times said. 

Tom Beatup attracted her strongly. He was much her 
own type — slow, ruminative and patient as the beasts he 
tended — yet she saw him as a being altogether more help- 
less than herself, one less able to think and plan, one 
whom she could “ manage ” tenderly. He w r as not so 
practical as she, and more in need of affection, of which 
he got less. Thyrza sometimes pictured his round dark 
head upon her breast, her arm about him, holding him 
there in the crook of it, both lover and child. . . . 

From the material point of view, the match was not 
a good one ; but Thyrza was comfortably off, and her 
miniature trade was brisk. They were both too un- 
sophisticated to make a barrier of her little stock of 
worldly goods — he had his pay, so his independence 
would not suffer, and she would have a separation 
allowance into the bargain. He was a slow wooer, and 
the tides of his boldness had never risen again to the 
level of that sticky kiss he had given her hand as she 
served the bull’s-eyes — but she was sure of him, and, 
being Thyrza, “ slow as a cow/’ had no objection to 
waiting. 


6 

Another woman in Sunday Street was being courted 
from the Waterheel Y.M.C.A., but she did not fill her 
part as comfortably as Thyrza. Not that Ivy Beatup 
had much real concern for jerry Sumption’s passion, 
beating against her indifference as a wave beats and 
breaks against a rock. Her chief trouble was that Jerry 
now threw out hints of an approaching leave, and though 
she had no objection to his mingling rage and tenderness 


JERRY 81 

on paper, she disliked the thought of having to confront 
them mingled in his gipsy face. 

The minister’s son was one of Ivy’s mistakes — she 
made mistakes occasionally, as she would herself 
acknowledge with a good-humoured grin. But they were 
never very serious. And, as the saying is, she knew how 
to take care of herself. Unfortunately, Jerry had given 
her more than ordinary trouble. After some years of 
standoffishness and suspicion — for Mrs. Beatup had 
never liked her children to play with the gipsy woman’s 
son — Ivy and Jerry had somehow been thrown together 
during his last holiday from Erith, and she had good j 
naturedly allowed him to kiss her and take her to Senlac 
Fair, as she would have allowed any decent lad on leave. 
It was unlucky that what had been to her no more than 
a bit of fun should be for Jerry the tinder to set his body 
and soul alight. Ivy, more buxom than beautiful, and, 
with her apple-face and her barley-straw hair, typical of 
those gaujos his mother’s people had always distrusted, 
somehow became his earth and sky. He loved her, and 
went after her as the tide after the moon. 

Ivy tried to detach him by the variolic means known 
to her experience. For a long time she ignored his letters 
and postcards. Then when these continued to pour upon 
her, she sent a cold, careless reply, which had the con- 
trary effect of making his furnace seven times hotter; 
so that her next letter was warmed unconsciously by 
the flame of his, and she saw that instead of having 
shaken him off, she had gone a step further in his 
company. 

No doubt the best thing to do was to tell him to his 
face that she would not have him. He would not be the 
first chap she had told this, but Ivy had an unaccount- 
able shrinking from repeating the process with Jerry. 
There was in him a subtle essence, a mystifying quality 
— perhaps it was no more than the power of a sharper 





8 ?, 


THE FOUR ROADS 


life and death — which made him different from the other 
lads she knew, and struck terror into her country soul. 
He was the first man she had been ever so little afraid of. 
Ivy had the least imagination of all the Beatups. That 
spark which sent Nell to the church, and Harry to the 
woods, which made Tom feel more than roots and clay 
in the earth on which he trod, and Zacky sometimes 
almost think himself a British army corps, even that 
little spark had never flickered up in Ivy’s honest heart. 
Her world was made of things she could taste and see 
and hear and smell and handle, and very good things she 
found them. She resented the presence in her life of 
something which responded to none of these tests. 
Jerry’s love for her was “ queer,” just as jerry himself 
was “ queer,” and Ivy did not like “ queer ” things. 

When the long-dreaded leave came at last, it took her 
by surprise. She had not heard from Jerry for a week, 
and one morning, having run to the pillar-box at the 
throws, with some letters for her soldier friends, on her 
return she met Mr. Sumption, waving his arms and 
cracking his joints and shouting to her even from be- 
yond earshot, that Jerry was coming home that evening. 

“ A letter came this morning. Maybe you’ve got one 
too? ” 

Ivy shook her head, and Mr. Sumption tried to dis- 
guise his pleasure at being the only one to hear. 

“ He’s a good boy, Jerry — never forgets his father. 
But he wants to see you though, Ivy. Maybe you’d come 
and have supper with us this evening? ” 

“ I’m unaccountable sorry, but I’m going up to Senlac 
town.” 

“ That’s a pity. Perhaps you’ll come another day? ” 

“ If I’ve time, Mus’ Sumption — but I’m justabout 
vrothered these days wud the harvesters here. Thank 
you kindly though, all the same.” 


JERRY 83 

She had been sidling away as she spoke, and now 
walked off with a brisk “ Good mornun.” She was 
sorry to have to disappoint Mr. Sumption, whom she 
liked and pitied ; but there was no good letting him 
think she had any use for Jerry. 

Before going home she ran down the drive to Little 
Worge, and told Polly Sinden she was at all costs and 
risks to come with her to Senlac that evening. 

For the rest of the day she was less her cheery, placid 
self than usual, and the evening in Senlac town was not 
the treat it might have been. All the time she was 
haunted by a sense of Jerry’s nearness — perhaps he had 
come as far as Lewes by now, perhaps he was already in 
Sunday Street, perhaps in Senlac itself. What a fool 
she had been to tell Mr. Sumption where she was going! 
Her heart was troubled — another of those “ queer ” 
aspects of the situation which she so disliked. Generally 
when she wanted to get rid of a boy, she did not have 
feelings like these. All through the soft August twilight, 
when she and Polly Sinden, in the clumsy finery of 
country girls, strolled arm-in-arm up and down the 
Upper Lake and the Lower Lake — those two lakes of 
blood which an old, old war had made, giving the town 
its bloody name — and even afterwards, when having by 
arts known to themselves acquired two soldiers, they 
sat in the picture palace with a khaki arm round each 
tumbled muslin waist, even then the terror lingered, 
haunting, tearing, elusive as a dead leaf on the wind. 
Ivy looked nervously into the shadows of the little pic- 
ture-hall, thinking she saw Jerry’s face, angry and 
swarthy, with eyes like the Forge at night. . . . Sup- 
pose he had come after her to Senlac ... he certainly 
would if he was home in time. Then came a picture of a 
girl who was “ done in ” by her lover. Ivy could stand it 
no more, and rising to her feet, plunged out over the 
people’s knees. 


8 4 


THE FOUR ROADS 


“ That plaace is lik an oven,” she said to the Anzac 
corporal who followed her out. . . . “ No, thank you. 
I’ll go home wud Polly.” 

Polly was a little annoyed that Ivy should have broken 
up the party so soon ; but it certainly was very hot — 
both the girls’ faces were spotted with. sweat and their 
gowns were sticking to their shoulders. Besides, it would 
be as well not to get too thick with this Australian chap 
now Bill Putland was writing so regularly. . . . Miss 
Sinden and Miss Beatup dismissed their escort, and, after 
the proper number of “ Good-by-ees,” shouted across 
longer and longer darkness-muffled distances, they 
trudged off homewards on the North Trade. 

When Ivy reached the farm, she was told that Jerry 
Sumption had called about eight o’clock — on his way 
from the station, without even going first to leave his 
kit-bag at the Horselunges — and that Mrs. Beatup had 
had an unaccountable to-do to git shut of him. 

7 

Having made up her mind that a meeting was in- 
evitable, Ivy made no more efforts to avoid one. By her 
absence on his first visit she had clearly shown Jerry how 
matters stood, and if he was fool enough to come 
again . . . 

He was, of course. Ivy, unromantically on her knees 
at her usual business of scrubbing the kitchen boards, 
felt no annoyance at being so discovered, made no hasty 
grabs at her rolled-up sleeves, or at the loosening knob 
of her hair. She would not have done so for a more 
favoured lover, for none of her courtships had been of 
the kind that encourages neatness and daintiness in a 
woman, that leads to curlings and powderings. She 
knew that men liked her for her youth and health and 


JERRY 


85 


bigness, for her cheeriness and strength, and as all these 
things were natural to her she had no need to trouble 
herself with fakes. 

“ Hullo, Jerry,” she said, without looking up, and send- 
ing a swirl of soapy water round his boots. 

“ Hullo, Ivy. Why weren’t you in when I came last 
night ? ”_ 

“ Because I’d gone into Senlac wud Polly Sinden, as 
your father ud have told you, if you’d done wot you 
should ought and gone to him fust.” - 

“ You’d no call to go into Senlac — not on the first night 
of my leave.” 

“ Your leave doan’t matter to me.” 

“ Ivy . . .” 

He caught her wrist as she was dipping the scrubbing- 
brush in the bucket, and she was forced to meet his eyes 
at last. She had tried to avoid this, staring at her soap- 
suds, for Jerry’s eyes were “ queer.” 

“ Leave hold of me, Jerry.” 

“ Not till you stand up and look at me. I can’t speak 
to you on all fours like this.” 

Ivy stood up, rather wondering at Jerry’s power to 
make her do so. He was a small fellow, but not of the 
stubby built of Tom or Harry Beatup. On the contrary, 
he was lightly made as a dancing-master, his hands and 
feet were small but very strong, his face was small and 
brown, lit by two large sloe-black eyes, with lashes long 
and curly as a child’s. His hair was curly too, in spite 
of its military cropping. He was a most slovenly-looking 
soldier, with tunic stained and buttons dim, and puttees 
looping grotesquely round his slim, graceful legs. 

“If the M.P.’s git hold of you . . .” began Ivy 
jeeringly. 

“ There ain’t any M.P.’s hereabouts. I’m on my leave, 
and you’re starting to spoil it already.” 


86 


THE FOUR ROADS 


“ Wot have I got to do wud your leave? You’re 
maaking some sort gurt big mistaake, Jerry Sumption.” 

“Maybe you’ve forgotten that day at Senlac Fair?” 

“And if I have, wot matter? It meant naun. You 
aun’t the fust lad that’s kissed me, nor the last, nuther.” 

It hurt her to have to speak so plainly, but Jerry 
Sumption must be put right at once on one or two im- 
portant matters he seemed to have misunderstood. She 
saw his face go pale under its sunburn and she felt sorry 
for him. None the less, she stuck to her harshness. 

“ I likked you well enough, and I lik you still ; but if 
you think as I meant more’n I did or said, you’re un- 
accountable mistaaken.” 

“ Ivy — come out of doors with me. I can’t speak to 
you in here. When my heart’s full I want the wind 
blowing round me.” 

She shook her head. “No, Jerry; we’ll stay where 
we are, surelye. You’re hedge-born, but I’m house-born, 
and I lik four walls around me when I’m vrothered. 
Now, lad, doan’t that show you as we two cud never 
mate? ” 

“ So, I’m vrothering you, am I ? ” 

“ Unaccountable.” 

“ Reckon I didn’t vrother you when I clipped you in 
the lane by the stack of Slivericks.” 

“ Doan’t ’ee. ...” 

His strange power over her was coming back. Look- 
ing into his eyes she seemed to see strange secrets of 
woods, memories of roads and stars, and a light that was 
like the light of a burning wood, such as she had once 
seen, licking up from the west, burning the little farm 
and the barns. She was frightened of Jerry, just as she 
was frightened of Dallington churchyard at night, or 
that field-corner by Padgham, where strange lights are 
sometimes seen. Yet it was a fear which instead of 


JERRY 87 

making her run, made her stumble and droop towards 
him, seeking refuge from terror in its source. . . . 

He pushed her away. 

" Reckon you’ll be kissing another lad to-night.” 

She felt flustered and miserable. 

“ You’re a lamentable trial to me, Jerry.” 

“Why? ’Cos I’ve kissed you? It’s nothing. I’ll be 
kissing another girl to-night.” 

“ You’re a valiant feller.” 

“ Ain’t I ? You think the world of me, Ivy Beatup.” 
“Do I? That’s news. Now doan’t start it all over 
again. I hear mother coming.” 

Mrs. Beatup’s step creaked outside, and Jerry scowled 
at the door. The next moment he was astride the 
window-sill, a queer furtive look in his eyes. 

“You aun’t going out lik that, surelye ! I’m ashamed 
of you. Stay and spik to mother like a Christian.” 

But he had swung his leg over, and slid into the yard. 
She heard him run off, with padding footsteps like a 
beast. 


8 

The next day was Sunday. A thick yellow haze swam 
over the fields, and there was a faint autumnal scent in 
the hedges, mixed of leaves and earth. The grain-fields 
still smelt of summer, with the baking glumes and the 
white, cracked ground. Only a few had been cut — the 
winter sowings at Egypt and Bucksteep ; the Volunteer 
Field and the Street Field at Worge still carried their 
crops, chaffy and nutty, preyed on by conies. They 
should have been cut last week, but Mus’ Beatup had 
not been himself on Friday and Saturday, and Juglery 
had a bad leg, and Harry had gone to Hailsham Fair. 

Towards eleven o’clock church and chapel goers began 
to dribble down the lane to Brownbread Street, while a 


88 


THE FOUR ROADS 


few strayed into the Bethel, which looked a little less 
gaunt with its door open to the sunshine and old Grand- 
father Hubble sitting in it with the collecting-plate on 
his knees. The congregation was small, but bigger than 
the Particular Baptist sect in Sunday Street. There 
were actually only two received members — old Hubble 
and his daughter-in-law ; the rest were either members 
of other denominations who had quarrelled with their 
respective chapels, or else felt disinclined for the trudge 
into Brownbread Street. Bourner came because the min- 
ister had once been a blacksmith, and the farmer of 
Puddledock came because he had once cured a stallion 
of his that had lockjaw. 

Jerry Sumption came because he hoped Ivy Beatup 
would be there. It was a vain hope, for on fine Sundays 
the family at Worge always went to church — except, 
of course, Mus’ Beatup, whose scientific readings had 
taught him the folly of all churches, and Mrs. Beatup, 
who stayed at home to cook the dinner. However, 
Mr. Sumption had encouraged, if indeed he had not in- 
spired, the illusion which landed Jerry in one of the big 
back pews of the Bethel, a pew like a dusty box, smelling 
of wood-rot. He knew that if he had been more candid 
Jerry would have padded off over the fields to Brown- 
bread Street and drunk in pernicious heresies of Infant 
Baptism and Universal Redemption, while he stared at 
his sweetheart’s profile ruddy in the sunshine which 
glowed on her through some painted saint. So he con- 
cealed the fact that the Beatups were “ Church,” weather 
permitting, and allowed Jerry to think he would have Ivy 
to grin and blink at during the sermon, as on his last 
visit, when the rain was tinkling in the chapel gutters. 

Finding himself sold, Jerry was inclined to sulk. 
Luckily he did not suspect his father, or he would have 
got up and walked out. The service was nearly half 


JERRY 89 

finished before he gave up hope; that is to say* the' 
sermon had begun, and the congregation had subsided 
into its various compartments, so that anyone coming 
in would have seen no one but Mr. Sumption, like a big 
crow in his Sunday blacks, shouting from the pulpit at 
two rows of coffin-like pews. Jerry opened the door of 
his, so that he could look out of the chapel door, which 
stood open, and see the dull blue sky above the fields of 
Puddledock, and in the foreground the neglected church- 
yard of the Bethel, with the tombstones leaning this way 
and that. 

A heavy sickness of heart fell on him, sitting there in 
the rot-smelling pew, with his arms folded over his chest 
and his shoulders shrugged to his ears. He felt caught 
in his love for Ivy Beatup like an animal in a trap, 
frantic, struggling, wounding himself with his struggles. 
If she did not want him, why wouldn’t she let him go? 
. . . Lord ! he would never forget her that day at Senlac 
Fair, with her cheeks red as the pimpernel and her eyes 
like the big twilight stars, and her hair blowing about 
them as they kissed. ... If she had not meant it, 
why had she done it? If she had not wanted his heart, 
why had she taken it and bruised it so? He did not 
please her. Why ? He had pleased other girls ; and 
now he was in uniform . . . that ought to please her. 
He remembered how she had made him jealous when 
she spoke of her soldier friends. Well, now he was a 
soldier too — leading a damned life partly for her sake 
. . . that ought to please her. 

In the Bethel yard rank weeds were growing, clump- 
ing round the tombstones, thickening the grass with 
their fat stalks and wide milk-bleeding leaves. They 
were hot in the sun, and the smell of them crept into the 
Bethel and found its place in the miasma of wood-rot 
and Sunday clothes and plaster and stale lamp-oil . . . 


90 


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the smell of pignut stewing in the sun, of the burdock 
and the thick fog-weed, the plantain, the nettle, the 
dandelion. The chapel weeds seemed to give Jerry an 
answer to his question. He did not please Ivy because 
he was the gipsy-woman’s son, no less a weed because 
he grew in a chapel yard. The hedge-born could not 
please the house-born, as she had said — though for that 
matter he had been born in a bed like any Christian, 
in that little room above the Forge at Bethersden, which 
he could dimly remember, with its view down three cross- 
roads. 

He clenched his small hard fists, and stared scowling 
out towards the sun-swamped fields of the horizon. He 
would punish Ivy Beatup for her cruelty, for having 
trodden on the chapel weed. He would make her suffer — 
if he could, for she was tough and lusty as an oak. He 
found himself hating her for her sturdy cheerfulness — 
for the shape of her face, with the hard, round cheeks 
and pointed chin — for her lips which were warm when 
her heart was cold. . . . 

A loud thump on the pulpit woke him out of his 
thoughts. His father had noticed his abstraction for 
some time, and chose this way of rousing him. From 
his vantage he could see into all the separate cells of his 
congregation, and if he noticed anyone nodding or moon- 
ing or reading his Bible for solace, he made haste to re- 
call him to a proper sense of his surroundings. He now 
stopped in the middle of an eschatological trump and 
glared at Jerry with his bright, tragic eyes. He had a 
habit of drastic personal dealings with his flock, to which, 
perhaps, its small size was due. Certainly Ades of Cow- 
lease had never entered the Bethel door since Mr. Sump- 
tion had “ thumped ” at him, and one or two others had 
been driven away in a like manner. To-day everyone, 
even those whose heads did not pop out of their 


JERRY 


91 


pews like Jim-Crows, guessed that the minister had 
“ thumped ” at Jerry, for the minister’s Jerry seldom 
came through a service without being thumped at — 
luckily he did not much mind it. “ Woa — old ’un,” he 
mumbled to himself, as he met his father’s stare, and 
soon luckily came the hymn : “ They shall gather by 
the river,” which Jerry sang most tunefully, in a loud, 
sweet, not quite human voice, forgetting all those sad 
thoughts of the chapel weed. . . . 

But he remembered them when he was walking across 
to the Horselunges with his father. 

“ Father, if I can’t get Ivy Beatup, I’ll kill myself.” 

“ For shame, you ungodly boy — to speak so light of 
losing your salvation ! ” 

“ Would I lose my salvation if I killed myself? ” 

“ Reckon you would. Satan would get you at once.” 
“ I’ll kill her, then. Satan can have her and welcome.” 
“ It’s you he’d have if you killed her.” 

“ Then he’s got me both ways? ” 

“ Reckon he has, you sinful good-for-nothing, dream- 
ing in sermon-time. Have done, do, with your idle talk, 
or Satan will get me too, and make me give you a kick 
behind.” 


9 

Jerry’s leave was not a happy or a peaceful one — no 
more for his father and Ivy Beatup than for himself. 
Every day he was over at Worge — Ivy had never met 
anyone so undetachable. She hated herself, too, for 
some temporary capitulations. Jerry had a way of 
making her faint-hearted, so that she would be betrayed 
into a kiss, or even a visit to the Pictures, with an 
entwined walk home under the stars. She wished that 
some other boy — some young Pix or Viner or Kadwell — 
was home on leave, then she might have escaped to him 



92 


THE FOUR ROADS 


from Jerry. Not that she really doubted herself — she 
had made up her mind that she did not want him and 
that she would not have him ; this still held good, and 
her momentary lapses deceived neither her nor him. He 
no longer wooed her ardently — contrariwise, he was stiff 
and sulky, sullen and rough when he kissed her. He 
knew that there was no chance for him, that his only prey 
could be the present moment, which he snatched and 
despised. 

Mr. Sumption, after one or two abortive attempts at 
persuading Ivy to take his boy, tried to detach Jerry 
from the vain quest which was spoiling these precious 
days. 

“ There’s many another girl that would have you, 
Jerry — and a better match, too, for a clergyman’s son.” 

“ I know there is — and I’ve had ’em — and thrown ’em 
away again. She’s the only one I’ve ever wanted for 
keeps.” 

When he heard this, Mr. Sumption felt as if his heart 
would break. 

At last came the end of Jerry’s leave. It was starless 
dusk, with clouds swagging on the thundery wind. Pools 
and spills of white light came from the west, making the 
fields look ghostly in the dripping swale. At Worge a 
scent of withering corn-stalks came from the fields where 
the crops had been cut at last, and as Jerry stood in the 
doorway the first dead leaves of the year fell on his 
shoulders. 

“ Come out with me, Ivy. It’s for the last time, and 
I hate your kitchen with the ceiling on my head, and 
your mother spannelling round.” 

Ivy was in a good humour. The joy of freedom was 
already upon her — she felt confident, and knew that 
there would be no lapses this evening. So she put a 
shawl over her head and went out with him. They 


JERRY 93 

passed through the yard and the orchard into the grass- 
fields by Forges Wood. 

The field was tangled and soggy, full of coarse, sour 
grass. In the dip of it, by the wood’s edge, toadstools 
spread dim tents, or squashed invisibly underfoot, as 
the twilight drank up all colours save white and grey. 

“ Fve trod on a filthy toadstool, and my foot’s all 
over scum,” said Ivy, rubbing her shoe in the grass. 
“ Let’s git through the headge, Jerry, into the dry 
stubble.” 

“ This is a better place to say good-bye.” 

“ We’ll say good-bye in the house. Now, none of your 
nonsense, Jerry Sumption ” — as he put his arm round her 
waist. 

“ But it’s my last evening.” 

“ Well, I’ve come for a walk. Wot more d’you want? 
I’m naun for cuddling, if that’s wot you’re after. I’ll 
give you a kiss, full and fair, when we say good-bye in 
the house, but there’s to be no lovering under headges.” 

“ You’ve been unkind all along. You’ve spoilt my 
leave.” 

“ That’s your own fault, surelye. I’ve bin straight 
wud you.” 

He laughed bitterly. Then his laugh broke into a gipsy 
whine. 

“ Ivy, are you sure — quite sure you’ll never love me ? ” 

“ Quite sure — as I’ve told you a dunnamany times.” 

“ But I don’t mean now . . . some day . . . Ivy ? ” 

In the dusk his face showed white as the toadstools at 

* 

her feet, but she stood firm, for his sake as well as her 
own. 

“ It’s no use talking about ‘ some day ’ — I tell you 
it’s never.” 

“Never! — and you’ve let me hold you 
you ...” 


and kiss 


94 


THE FOUR ROADS 


“ Only now and then — saum as I’d let any nice lad.” 

His eyes blazed. 

“ You little bitch ! ” 

“ Mind your words, my boy — and leave hoald of my 
arm, and come into the next field, or I’ll git hoame.” 

But he did not move, and his grip on her arm 
tightened. 

“ I want you. I reckon you don’t know what that 
means when I say I want you, or you wouldn’t be so 
damn cruel. Ivy, I can’t leave you like this. I can’t 
go back to camp knowing I’m just nothing to you. You 
must give me some sort of hope. It’s not fair to have 
led me on ” 

“ I never led you on ” 

Her limbs were shaking. An unaccountable terror had 
seized her — a terror of him, with his hot, gripping hand 
and blazing eyes, of the field so dim and sour, its grass 
scummy with the spilth of trampled toadstools, of the 
wood close by with its spindled ashes and clumping 
oaks. . . . 

“ Let me go ! ” she cried suddenly, in a weak frightened 
voice. 

For answer he pulled her into his arms, and held her 
with her breast bruised against his. 

“ I shan’t let you go — I’ll never let you go. Come 
into the wood, Ivy. Don’t be afraid ... I love you. 
. . . Come into the wood — there’s nothing to be afraid 
of. I wouldn’t hurt you for worlds.” 

He tried to pick her up and carry her, but she struggled 
desperately and broke free. 

“ This has justabout finished it all, Jerry Sumption. 
You’re a beast — I’ll never let you come nigh me agaun. 
You’ve a-done for yourself. I’ve bin good to you and 
straight wud you, and I’d have gone on being friends; 
but now I’ve a-done wud you for good.” 


JERRY 


95 


Her voice broke with rage, and she turned to run home. 
But he grabbed her again, and this time she could not 
escape. He was a small man, and she was a big whack- 
ing girl ; but madness was in him, and his arms were 
like iron clamps. 

“ You shan’t get shut of me like that. I tell you I 
mean to have you . . . and wot’s more I’ll make you 
have me. I’ll break your pride — I’ll make you want to 
have me, ask me to take you.” 

Ivy screamed. 

“ Scream away. No one ull hear. I’ve got you, and 
I’m damned if I let you go till I please. . . . To-morrow 
you’ll be on your knees, begging me to take you and 
save you.” 

He clapped his hand over her mouth, and forced back 
her head, kissing her strained and aching neck till she 
screamed with pain as well as with fright. Her cries 
were stilled under his palm, her head swam, her strength 
was leaving her . . . she was down on one knee . . . 
then suddenly, she could never remember how, she was 
free, and running, running as she had never run before, 
her breath sobbing in her throat — across the field of the 
toadstools and sour grass, away from the shadow of 
Forges Wood, in the orchard, to see the gable of Worge 
rising against the pewter-grey of the clouds that hid 
the moon. 

At the orchard edge she had the sense to stop and tidy 
herself. There was no longer any fear of pursuit — if 
indeed she had ever been pursued. She had dropped 
her shawl in the field, her blouse was torn open at the 
neck, her hair was down on her shoulders, and her face 
all blotched with excitement and tears. Also, a new 
experience, she was trembling from head to foot, and her 
shaking hands could scarcely fasten her blouse and twist 
up her hair. 



96 


THE FOUR ROADS 


“ You beast ! ” she sobbed, as she fumbled ; “ you beast ! 
You dirty gipsy ! ” 

Then an unaccountable longing seized her for her 
mother — she longed to throw her arms round her 
mother's neck and cry upon her shoulder. With a little 
plaintive moan she started off again for the house, but 
by the time she reached the doorstep the craving had 
passed. 

io 

For half an hour after Ivy left him, Jerry lay on his 
face in Forges Wood, motionless save every now and 
then for a quiver of his shoulders. Over him the boughs 
of the ash-trees cracked and sighed, under him the 
trodden leaves rustled creepingly. He felt them cold 
and moist against his cheek, with the clammy mould of 
nettles, weeds that were trampled and dead. His heart 
in him was dead — cold, heavy and sodden as a piece of 
rain-soaked earth. The fire in him was out — it had 
driven him mad and died. By his short madness, 
scarcely five minutes long, he had lost Ivy for ever. She 
was gone as the summer was gone from the woods, but, 
unlike the summer, she would never come back. A sour, 
eternal autumn lay before him, sour as the grass and 
toadstools of Forges Field, eternal as the blind, creeping 
force from which toadstools are spawned into fields and 
poor men’s hearts. 

At last he rose to his feet, and stumbled off, plunging 
into the thickets of Forges Wood, through the ash-plats 
and the oak-scrub. Scarcely realising what he was doing, 
he forced his way out of the wood, through its hedge of 
brambled wattles, into the lane. The pewterish sky hung 
low over the hedges, and in its dull glimmer he could see 
the road under his feet. He soon clambered out of the 
lane, pushing through the hedge into the fields of Padg- 


JERRY 


97 


ham. To eastward lay the thick, black woods of Furnace- 
field, and the cry of an owl came out of them, plaintively. 

Jerry wandered in the fields till dawn, his heart cold 
and heavy as a clod, though now and then little crawls 
of misery went into it, like a live thing creeping into the 
earth. He had lost Ivy for ever . . . his own madness — 
which was gone — had taken her from him . . . she was 
gone, as the summer was gone from the woods. . . . 

He came nearly as far south as Hazard’s Green, but 
mostly roamed in his own tracks, prowling the barns of 
Burntkitchen. Then, when a thin, greenish light shone 
like mould on the pewtered sky, a sudden childish crav- 
ing came to him, the same that had come to Ivy in the 
orchard. As she had wanted her mother in her fright 
and misery, so he wanted his father, and ran home. 

ii 

A light was burning at the Horselunges, but the cold 
lamp of dawn shone on Jerry as he stood fumbling in 
the doorway, then, finding the door unlocked, crept in. 
A footstep creaked in his father’s room, and the next 
minute the door was flung open and the minister stood 
at the top of the stairs, blocked against the light, loom- 
ing, monstrous, like a huge black Satan. 

“ Where’ve you been ? ” 

“ In the woods.” 

Jerry’s teeth were chattering as his father took him 
by the arm and pulled him into the room. A fire was 
burning on the hearth, with the old, old cat purring 
squeakily before it, while the broken-winged thrush, 
which Mr. Sumption had forgotten to cover up for the 
night, hopped to and fro, twittering its best effort at a 
song. 

“ Oh, may the Lord forgive you, you scamp,” groaned 


98 


THE FOUR ROADS 


the minister, as Jerry fell crumpled on the sofa. His 
boots and uniform were caked with leaf-mould and clay, 
his hair was full of leaves and mud and his face was 
streaked with dirty wet. 

“ Are you hungry ? ” 

“ No.” 

There was a pot of something on the fire, but it was 
just as well that Jerry was not hungry, for it had been 
burnt to a cinder long ago. 

“ I’ve been sitting up for you all night,” said Mr. 
Sumption. “ When you didn’t come in, I went over tq 
Worge, and Ivy said you’d been out with her, but had 
gone off by yourself, she didn’t know where. She’s a 
kind girl, and told me not to worry.” 

“ Father — I’ve lost her for ever.” 

It was the first time he had said the words aloud, and 
their wretchedness swept over him, breaking his spirit, 
so that he began to cry. 

“ I’ve lost her ... I was mad . . . and she’s gone.” 

Mr. Sumption stood staring at the small, slight figure 
on the sofa, lying with its dirty face turned away, its 
back showing him the split tunic of a soldier of the King. 
His bowels yearned towards the son of the woman from 
Ihornden, and his rage switched violently from Jerry 
to the cause of his grief. 

“ Drat the girl ! Drat the slut ! What is she after, 
despising her betters? She’s led you on — she’s played 
with you. Don’t trouble about her, Jerry, my boy. She 
isn’t worth it.” 

“ I love her,” gasped Jerry — “ and I’ve lost her. It’s 
my own fault. I went mad. I frightened her. . . . 
Father, I’m a beast — I reckon Satan’s got me.” 

Mr. Sumption patted his shoulder. 

“ I reckon Satan’s got me,” moaned the boy — “ or why 
did I go wild like that ? ” 


JERRY 


99 


“ Satan can't hurt the elect." 

“ What's that to me? I reckon I’m none of your elect. 
I’m just a poor boy who’s done for himself." 

Mr. Sumption dropped on his knees beside him, and 
began to pray. 

“ O Lord, Thou hast given me a sore trial in this son 
of mine, and now terrible doubts are in my soul as to 
whether he is one of the elect for whom Jesus died. O 
Lord, he’s my flesh and bone, and the flesh and bone of 
my dear wife who’s dead, and yet it looks as if Satan 
had got him. O Lord, save my son from the lion and 
my darling from the power of the dog, from the dreadful 
day that shall burn like an oven, and the furnace of pitch 
and tow. ..." 

“ Father, have done, do — you give me the creeps." 

“ I’m praying for your soul, ungrateful child." 

“ Let my soul be — I’m tired to death." 

Indeed a grey shade of utter weariness had crept into 
his skin, so that his face looked ghastly in the morning 
twilight fighting round the lamp. Mr. Sumption, who 
had stood up, knelt down again, and took off Jerry’s 
boots. 

“ Have a sleep then, my laddie — there on the sofy. 
It’s scarce worth going to bed. Besides, you’d have to 
clean yourself first." 

“ You won’t leave me, father — you’ll stay along of 
me? " 

“ I’ll stay along of you and pray quiet." 

Jerry gave a grunt, and drew up his knees to his chin, 
like some animal rolling itself for sleep. Mr. Sumption 
knelt beside him and continued his prayer: 

“ O Lord, Thou hast a son, and doesn’t Thou know 
what I feel about this wretched boy of mine? Lord, 
give me a token that he is not predestined to everlasting 
death; save him from the snares of hell, in which he 


100 


THE FOUR ROADS 


seems tangled like a bird in the snare of the fowler . . .” 

“ Oh, father, do pray cheerful/’ groaned Jerry. 

But praying cheerful was quite beyond the poor 
father’s powers, never remarkable in this direction at 
the best of times. All he could do was to sing, “ Let 
Christian faith and hope dispel the fears of guilt and 
woe,” till Jerry had fallen asleep. 

12 

Three hours later he woke, to find Mrs. Hubble’s big 
wooden washtub in front of the fire. 

“ Up you get,” said the Reverend Mr. Sumption, “ and 
into that bath, and I’ll take your clothes down to be 
cleaned and mended before you go to the station.” 

“ I’m not going to the station.” 

“ You’re going there two hours from now, or you 
won’t be in Waterheel to-night.” 

“ I don’t want to be in Waterheel ever again.” 

But Mr. Sumption was not having any nonsense. A 
large hairy paw like a gorilla’s shot out and swung Jerry 
by the collar on to the floor. “ Now strip, you ungodly 
good-for-nothing, and I’ll send you out looking like a 
clergyman’s son.” 

Jerry, groaning and moaning to himself, got into the 
bath, while Mr. Sumption took his dirty bundle of 
clothes down to Mrs. Hubble’s kitchen, where a long and 
noisy argument followed on her abilities to make bricks 
without straw, as she called his request to make his son 
look decent. He returned to the study to find Jerry less 
stiff in the joints, but growing every minute more defiant 
and miserable as the steaming water cleared the fogs of 
sleep from his brain. 

“ I’m not going back to camp. I’d die if I was to go 
there — with Ivy lost. It was bad enough when I had 


JERRY 101 

her to think of and all But now ... I’d justabout 

break my heart.” 

“ Maybe after a time you can write to her again ” 

“ I can’t, I tell you. You don’t understand. I’ve 
lost her for ever. I frightened her — I made her scream.” 
“ You’re a beast,” said his father. 

“ Reckon I am, and reckon you’re treating me like one.” 
“ If you stay behind, they’ll nab you for an absentee.” 
“ I don’t care if they do. I’d sooner be locked up, 
than a soldier any more.” 

“ For shame, boy ! ” 

“Well, how’d you like to be a soldier? — sworn at all 
day by bloody sergeants, and always fatigue and C.B. 
I’m fed up, I tell you, and I’m not going back.” 

“ You’ll go back, if I have to pull you all the way by 
the ears.” 

“ You’re the cruellest father I ever heard of.” 

Mr. Sumption lost his temper, and cuffed Jerry’s head 
as he sat in the tub. Luckily the boy’s defiance had been 
only the false flare of damp spirits, and instead of receiv- 
ing the blow with an explosion of anger, he was merely 
cowed by it. Whereat Mr. Sumption’s heart melted, 
and he saw the piteousness of this poor little soldier, 
whose heart was black with some evil beyond his 
help. 

The rest of the time passed amicably, till Mrs. Hubble, 
with many contemptuous sniffs, brought up Jerry’s uni- 
form brushed and mended, and after he was dressed he 
did not look so bad, especially as the bath had had the 
humiliating result of making his skin look several shades 
lighter. 

Breakfast followed, and afterwards he and his father 
set out for Senlac Station, taking the longer North Road 
by Woods Corner and Darwell Hole, instead of that 
shorter, more dangerous, way past the gate of Worge. 


102 


THE FOUR ROADS 


It was a morning of clear, golden distances, with pillars 
and towers and arches of cloud moving solemnly before 
the wind across a borage-blue sky. Drops of dew fell 
from the trees on the backs of the two men, and the air 
was full of the smell of earth and wet leaves, and that 

i 

faint mocking smell of spring which sometimes comes 
in autumn. 

As they tramped along the North Road, away from 
the Obelisk by Lobden’s House, which allows a Dalling- 
ton man to see his village for miles after he has left it, 
Mr. Sumption spoke very patiently and kindly to his son. 

“ Keep good and straight,” he said, “ for you’re a good 
woman’s son, and some day you’ll find a woman whom 
you’ll love as I loved your mother. May she be to you 
all that your mother was to me, and may you keep her 
longer. But don’t go running after strange women, or 
think to forget love in wantonness. One day, if you trust 
the Lord, you’ll meet a girl that has been worth keeping 
good for, that you’ll find lovelier than Ivy Beatup, and 
ull think herself honoured to marry a clergyman’s son.” 
“Clergyman’s son ...” murmured Jerry, in tones 
that made Mr. Sumption swoop round on him with up- 
lifted hand, to see a look on his face that made him 
thrust it back into his pocket. 

His eyes were still full of his mysterious trouble, but 
he did not speak of it so much. He just plodded on 
beside his father like a calf to slaughter, and at last they 
came to Senlac Town, with the houses like barley-stacks 
in the sunshine. They were early, and had half an hour 
to wait at the station. A train had just come in, and as 
they crossed the bridge they suddenly met Tom Beatup. 

“Tom!” cried the minister, cracking his joints with 
delight. “ Who’d have thought to meet you! I’d no 
idea you were coming home.” 

“ Nor had I till yesterday — seven days’ leave before 
I go to France. I sent off a telegram, but I reckon it 


JERRY 103 

was too late for them to get it last night. Hullo, jerry! 
Enjoyed yourself ? ” 

“ Unaccountable,” said Jerry with a leer. 

“ Wait for me, Tom,” said Mr. Sumption, “ and we’ll 
walk home together. I shan’t be more than twenty 
minutes or so.” 

“ I’m justabout sorry, but I must git off this wunst. 
Reckon I’ll see you again soon.” 

“ Come round to the Horselunges one evening.” 

“ I will, surelye ” — and Tom was off, whistling 
“ Sussex by the Sea.” 

It seemed to Mr. Sumption that he looked a bigger, 
older man than the Tom Beatup of five months ago. 
He seemed to have grown and filled out, he had lost his 
yokel shuffle, and his uniform was smart and neat. The 
minister glanced down at Jerry, who stood beside him, 
small, untidy, cowed and furtive. Jerry undoubtedly 
did not look his best in uniform — it seemed to exaggerate 
the worst of those gipsy characteristics which he had 
inherited from the Rossarmescroes or Hearns. Now, 
in civvies he used not to look so bad — he was a well-made, 
graceful little chap. . . . 

“Jerry,” said Mr. Sumption, “ why can’t you look like 
Tom Beatup? ” 

“ I reckon it’s because I’m Jerry Sumption — the clergy- 
man’s son.” 

And again there was that look on his face which pre- 
vented retaliation. 

13 

In the old days it used to take Tom a good couple of 
hours to walk from Senlac to Sunday Street — but then, 
he had generally been behind a drove of lazy tups or 
heifers, or silly scattering sheep. To-day he swung 
smartly along, scarcely feeling the weight of his kit-bag, 
whistling as he walked. It was good to feel the soft thick 


104 


THE FOUR ROADS 


fanning of the Sussex air, so different from the keen 
Derbyshire wind, with its smell of bilberries and slaty 
earth; to see the old places along the North Trade — 
Whitelands, Park Gate, Burntkitchen, and then, when he 
came to the throws, that wide sudden view of the country 
bounded by the Four Roads, swamped in hazy sunshine, 
with the trickle of lanes and the twist of the rough, 
blotched hedges, and the pale patches of the stubble, and 
the low clouds sailing over it from Cross-in-Hand. He 
walked through Brownbread Street, empty save for the 
waggon-team that drowsed outside the George, silent save 
for the hum of children’s voices in the school. Then he 
came to Pont’s Green, where the lane to Sunday Street 
meets the East Road. The hops were being picked in the 
low sheltered fields by Slivericks Wood, and the smoke 
of the drying furnace streamed out of the cowl of the 
oasthouse at the throws, while all the air seemed heavy 
with the sweet, sleepy scent of stripping bines. 

He had meant, traitorously, to call at the shop before 
he went home; but just as he came to the willow-pond, 
a small dusty figure ran out of the hedge, and seized him 
round the waist. 

“ Hullo, Tom ! ” 

“ Hullo, Zacky! Wot are you doing here?” 

“ I haven’t bin to school — I couldn’t go when I heard 
you wur coming. Mother got your telegram this mornun, 
and she wur sure it wur to say as you wur killed.” 

“ Was she pleased when she found it wasn’t ? ” 

“ Unaccountable. But she’d nigh cried her eyes out 
first, and told Ivy and Nell as something tarr’ble had 
happened to you, afore they found as she’d never opened 
the telegram.” 

“ I’ll write a letter next time,” said Tom; “ but I 
never knew for sure till yesterday that I’d be gitting 
leave so soon.” 


JERRY 


105 


He did not scold Zacky for having stayed away from 
school. It was a relief not to have to exercise quasi- 
paternal authority any more, but just to take the truant's 
hand and walk with him to Worge Gate — where Mus' 
Beatup was standing with his gun, having seen Tom in 
the distance from Podder’s Field, where the conies are, 
while Mrs. Beatup was running down the drive from the 
house, her apron blowing before her like a sail. 

“ Here you are, my boy,” said Mus’ Beatup senten- 
tiously, clapping him on the shoulder. “ Come to see 
how we're gitting on now you’ve left us. The oald farm's 
standing yit — the oald farm’s standing yit.” 

“ And looks valiant,” said Tom, grinning, and kissing 
his mother. 

“ Not so valiant as it ud look if there wurn't no war 

on. 

“ Maybe — that cud be said of most of us.” 

“ Not of you, Tom,” said Mrs. Beatup. “ I never saw 
you look praaperer than to-day.” 

“ Oh, I’m in splendid heart — eat till I'm fit to bust.” 
“You wear your cap like Bill Putland,” said Zacky. 
“ It maakes you look different-like.” 

Tom’s cap indeed had a rakish tilt over one ear, 
though he did not profess to imitate Bill Putland’s 
jauntiness. 

“ Maybe old Bill ull git a bit of leave in a week or two. 
I see Jerry Sumption's gone back to-day. I met him and 
minister at the station.” 

Mrs. Beatup gave a snort. 

“ And unaccountable glad I am to see the last of Gipsy 
Jerry; he’s justabout plagued Ivy to death all the time 
he's bin here. She says she’s shut of him, and I hope to 
goodness she means it.” 

“ Jerry shud never have gone fur a soldier,” said Tom. 
“ He’s got no praaper ideas of things, and is fur ever 


106 


THE FOUR ROADS 


gitting in trouble. Come, mother, let’s be walking up to 
the house and put my bag in the bedroom.” 

“ Wot’s in your bag? ” asked Zacky. 

“ Soap, razor, slacks, and one or two liddle bits of 
things,” said Tom, grinning down at him in proud con- 
sciousness of two pounds of Derby rock — to such magnifi- 
cence had his sweetmeat buying risen from his old penn- 
’orths of bull’s-eyes. 

They walked up to the house, and greetings came with 
Ivy hanging out the clothes, and Harry toiling over the 
corn accounts in shamefaced arrears. Then his bag was 
unpacked, and presents given to everybody — sweetstuff 
to Zacky and Harry, a good knife to his father, and to 
his mother a wonderful handkerchief case with the arms 
of the Royal Sussex worked in lurid silks ; there was a 
needlebook of the same sort for Nell, when she should 
come home from school ; and for Ivy there was a mother- 
o’-pearl brooch, and, which she liked even better, mes- 
sages from a dozen Sussex chaps at Waterheel. 

Then as the family went back to its business, Tom, 
who for the first time in his life had none, slipped out of 
the house, and jogged quietly down the drive towards 
the village. There would be just time before dinner to 
call at the shop. 

The blind was down, for the sunshine was streaming 
in at the little leaded window, threatening the perils of 
dissolution to the sugar mice (made before the sugar 
scarcity, indeed, it must be confessed, before the War) 
and of fermentation to the tinned crab. Tom’s hand may 
have shaken a little as he pulled down the latch, but 
except for that his manner was stout, very different from 
his sheepish entrances of months ago. 

Buzz . . . ting . . . Thyrza looked up from the pack- 
ing-case she was breaking open behind the counter.. The 
next moment she gave a little cry. She had just been 


JERRY 


107 

thinking of Tom at Waterheel, wondering if it was his 
dinner-time yet, and what Cookie had put in the stew; 
and then she had lifted her eyes to see his broad, sun- 
burnt face smiling at her from the door, with his hair 
curling under his khaki cap, and his sturdy figure looking 
at once stronger and slimmer in its uniform. 

“ Tom ! ” she gasped, and held out her hand across 
the counter — hoping . . . 

But he had gone beyond the timid daring of those 
days. Before she knew what was happening, he had 
marched boldly round behind the counter and taken her 
in his arms. - 


14 

TonTs family gave a poor reception to his news that 
this was “ last leave ” before going to France. 

“ I knew as that there telegram meant something 
tar’ble,” wailed Mrs. Beatup. “ It wurn’t fur naun I 
cried, Nell, though you did despise me/’ 

“ I didn’t despise you,” said Nell ; “ you’re very un- 
just, mother.” 

“ Unjust, am I? — wud my boy going out to be 
slaughtered like a pig.” 

“ I aun’t going to be slaughtered, mother — not if I 
know it. It’s I who’ll do the slaughtering.” 

“ You who’d go swummy at wringing a cockerel’s neck. 
. . . Reckon a German ull taake some killing — want 
more’n a twist and a pull.” 

“ He’ll want no more’n I’ve got to give him. Now, 
doan’t you taake on so, mother — there’s naun to vrother 
about. Maybe I woan’t be off so soon after all — it’s only 
an idea that’s going round. And if I do go, I aun’t 
afeard. I’ve a feeling as no harm ull come to me.” 

“ And I’ve a feeling as it will. Howsumdever . . . 
I mun think as I’ve got four children left . . . and a 


108 THE FOUR ROADS 

hoame . . . and a husband ” — remembering her bless- 
ings one by one. 

Mus’ Beatup was inclined to be contemptuous. 

“ Wot fur are they sending you out now? You’ve 
bin training scarce five month.” 

“ Many of the boys git less.” 

“ Maybe they do, wud Governmunt being wot it is. 
As if anyone wud know cudn’t see as it taakes ten year 
to maake a looker.” 

“ Reckon things have to go quicker in the Army than 
on a farm. If we all took ten years to git ready, the 
Bosches ud have us middling soon.” 

“ They’d taake ten years, too, and it ud all go much 
better.” 

“ At that raate we’d never have done, surelye.” 

“ And wot maakes you think as we’ll ever have done, 
as things are? ... Go forrard five mile in a year, and 
it’ll be two hundred years afore we git to the Kayser’s 
royal palace. You see ’em all fighting around a farm 
as it wur the Tower of Lunnon — their objective, they call 
it. If Worge wur an objective it ud taake the Germans 
fifteen month to git into it, and we’d taake another fifteen 
month to git ’em out ; and then they’d git in agaun, and 
it ud go on lik that till the plaace wur in shards. I tell 
you this aun’t a hurrying sort of war, and ull be won by 
them wot lives longest.” 

Tom was impressed. “ Seemingly you know more 
about it than I do.” 

“ I read the paapers, and reckon I do a bit of thinking 
as well.” 

“ Reckon you do. Howsumdever, it’s my plaace to 
fight and not to think — I leave that to men lik you.” 

In spite of his respect for Mus’ Beatup as a military 
tactician, he was a bit disgusted with him as a farmer. 
A searching of the farm accounts and an examination 


JERRY 


109 


of the shame-faced Harry revealed a state of affairs even 
more depressing than he had looked for. The harvest 
had been mismanaged, the oats having been allowed to 
stand too long, and a quantity of seed had been lost. 
The blight had got into the hops owing to insufficient 
spraying, and two sheep had died of bronchitis. Tom 
was at first inclined to be angry. Harry acknowledged 
having played truant on one or two important occasions, 
though he insisted, whiningly, that he had worked “ lik 
ten black slaves” for most of the summer. If he had 
always been on the spot, the aberrations of Mus’ Beatup 
and the laziness and pigheadedness of Elphick and Jug- 
lery might have been counteracted to a certain degree. 
Tom would have liked to have beaten Harry, just to teach 
him the disadvantages of ratting in harvest-time, but he 
was now oddly loath to exercise the old compulsory 
tyrannies. He saw, too, the pathos of Harry’s youth, 
forced to play watchdog to middle-aged vice and ancient 
inefficiency. 

So, instead of being angry, he was just patient. He 
went out a good deal during his leave, and the family 
whispered, “ Thyrza Honey ” ; but in the afternoons and 
soft evenings, when all the fields were rusty in the harvest 
moon, he would walk with Harry over the farm, and 
point out to him the work that would have soon to be 
done in the way of sowings and diggings, with never a 
word of reproach for the pitiable deeds of the summer. 

“ It aun’t too late to try fur a catch crop or two — 
harrow some clover on the Volunteer stubble, and if you 
sow early and late red, and late white, you’ll git cuttings 
right on into June. I wudn’t have potato oats agaun fur 
the Street field — their rootses git too thick fur clays, 
and they shed seed unaccountable if you leave them stand- 
ing a day over their due. Try Sandy oat this fall — and 
Flemish oat is good in clays, I’ve heard tell. And the 


110 


THE FOUR ROADS 


two-acre shud go into potash next year — wurzels or 
swedes, or maybe potatoes/’ 

“ I’ll never kip all this in my head, Tom.” 

“ You’ll justabout have to, sonny. I tell you this 
farm’s your job, saum as mine’s soldiering. I’m going 
to fight fur Worge, and you’ve got to back me up and 
see as Worge is kept going fur me to fight fur.” 

“ I’ll do my best, surelye — but you must write, Tom, 
and maake me mind it all. Write and say, ‘ This week 
you must drill the two-acre ’ — or 4 To-morrow’s the day 
to start thinning,’ or ‘ Maake a strong furrer this frost,’ 
so’s I shan’t disremember the lot.” 

“ I’ll send you a postcard at whiles, to kip you up to it ; 
but I shan’t be here to see how things are going, so you’ll 
have to trust to your own gumption. And doan’t go 
agaunst faather when he’s sober, fur he’s a clever chap 
and knows wot he’s doing ; but when he’s tight doan’t 
let him meddle, for he’s unaccountable contrary and ud 
pot a harvest just to spite the Government. As fur 
Juglery and Elphick, they’ve got no more sense nor roots, 
so doan’t you ever be asking wot to do of them.” 

Harry was impressed by all this counsel. But perhaps 
its real weight lay in Tom’s new glamour, his khaki uni- 
form, his occasional jauntiness, his military slang and 
tales of camp life. He had always been fond of his 
brother and liked him for a good fellow ; but now he 
went a step further, and admired him. There was some- 
thing about this quiet, neat, efficient young soldier, 
which had been lacking in good-natured old Tom, with 
his dirty skin and sloppy corduroys. Without quite 
understanding what it was, or how it had come there, 
Harry was both sensible and envious of it. He felt that 
he would like to be a soldier too, wear khaki, carry 
mysterious tools, and have before him a dim, glorious 
adventure called France. But since these things were 




Ill 




JERRY 

not to be, a kind of rudimentary hero-worship led him 
to make plans for “ carrying on ” at home. He would 
not disappoint this soldier brother, who had exalted his 
work on the farm by speaking of it as part of the ad- 
venture on which he was so much more glamorously 
engaged. He had never seen it in that light before — for 
that matter, neither had Tom. But now he would try 
to do his share — back Tom up, as he had said. Harry’s 
nature was more ardent than his brother’s, more 
romantic in its clay-thickened way, and on this ardour 
and romance Tom had unconsciously built. There was 
now a chance of his memory calling louder than Senlac 
Fair or the wood by Cade Street. 

15 

Tom did not tell his family about Thyrza Honey till 
the morning he left Sunday Street. He knew they were 
curious, but he felt that he would rather face their 
curiosity than their comments. They were sure to be 
pleased at the news from a material standpoint, but 
against that he had to balance the fact that the women — 
except, perhaps, Ivy — did not like Thyrza, and that his 
mother still looked upon him as a little boy, too young to 
think of marrying. He had looked upon himself in that 
light six months ago — it was queer how much older he 
felt now. Surely it did not make you all that much older 
to have the sergeant howling at you, or to sleep with fifty 
men in a hut, or to eat stew out of a dixey. . . . Yet, the 
fact remained, that in April he had felt a boy and in Sep- 
tember he felt a man ; and, more — he was a man ; for 
Thyrza had accepted him as her lover, and had promised 
to let him fulfil his manhood as her husband. 

At present he was content with the first stage. Each 
day held a new wonder. Yet he did nothing more 


112 


THE FOUR ROADS 


wonderful than sit with her in the little room behind the 
shop — the sanctuary into which he had so often peeped 
in the old days, wondering what Thyrza thought and did 
there in the humming firelight, with her kettle and her 
cat and her account-books in which all the little traffic 
of the shop was entered with sucked pencil and puckered 
brows. 

He would sit by her and hold her hand, so large and 
soft and firm, turning it over and over in his own, kissing 
it back and palm. Her manner was a little motherly, for 
she was touched by the fact that she was the first woman 
he had ever held or kissed, while her own experience was 
deep and bitter. She was older than he was too, and, as 
she thought, sharper at the uptake, though certainly he 
had improved in this of late. She would hold him in her 
arms, with his head against her breast, held between her 
heart and her elbow, as she had for a few short minutes 
held the little baby who died. . . . She never asked her- 
self why she loved him so much better than the big, 
strong, hairy Bourner, or than Hearsfield, whose hands 
were white as a gentleman’s ; all she knew was that she 
loved him, and that she pitied him for the fond no-reason 
that he loved her and through her was learning his first 
lessons in woman and love. 

Then before he went home she would make him tea, 
or supper perhaps, and herself gain new sweet experience 
in ministering to the material wants of the man whose 
spirit she held. No meal prepared for Honey had been 
like this, and they would sit over it cosily together, all 
the more conscious of their union when the little buzzing 
bell of the shop divided them, and Tom, new privileged, 
would sit in the back room listening to Thyrza serving 
Putlands or Sindens or Bourners or Hubbles, and getting 
rid of them as quickly as she could — which, it must be 
confessed, was not very quick, for she was far too soft 


JERRY 


113 


and kind to turn anyone out who seemed to want to stay. 
Then the bell which had divided them would bring them 
together again as it rang behind the departing shopper, 
and Thyrza would come back to the lover waiting for her 
in the red twilight beside the singing fire. 

They did not go out together till the last evening. 
Then he came to tea and stayed to supper, and in the 
interval they went into the lane just as the dusk came 
stealing up the sky. Thyrza had objected at first. 

“ We closed early yesterday, and folk ull be vexed if 
they find us shut this evenun too.” 

“ Folk be hemmed ! This is my last evenun, and I’m 
going to taake you where we can’t hear that tedious 
liddle bell of yourn.” 

“ Doan’t miscall my bell, fur it rings when you come 
to see me. In the old days when it rang, I used to say 
to myself, 4 Is that Tom? ’ and look through the winder, 
hoping ...” 

“ Thyrza, did you love me then? ” 

“ Reckon I did. But I doan’t know as I ever thought 
much about it, fur I maade sure as at the raate you wur 
going it ud be a dunnamany years afore you started 
courting praaperly.” 

“ I’m glad I didn’t wait, surelye. Oh, liddle creature, 
you can’t know wot this week’s bin to me. I’ll go out to 
France feeling . . . feeling ... I can’t tell you wot I 
feel, but it’s as if I wur leaving part of myself behind, 
and that the part I left behind wur helping and backing 
up the part out there ... it sounds unaccountable silly 
when I say it, but it’s wot I’ve got in my heart.” 

They were in the big pasture meadow near Little 
Worge, sitting by the willow-pond which lay cupped 
against the lane. It was the first and the last landmark 
in Sunday Street — the thick scummed water with the 
grey trees dipping the-ir leaves in its stillness. To-day a 


114 


THE FOUR ROADS 


soft wind rustled in them, blowing from the west, and 
scarcely louder than the wind throbbed the distant guns, 
the beating of that racked far-off heart whose terrible 
secrets Tom was soon to know. Thyrza shuffled against 
his side as they sat on the grass. 

“ Oh, Tom — hear the guns? It’s tar’ble to think of 
you out there.” 

“ Til come back, surelye.” 

“ Do you feel as if you will? ” 

“ Surelye — since I’ve left half myself behind.” 

Her arms stole round him, and the beating of that far- 
away heart was drowned in the beating of his under her 
cheek. 

A pale cowslip light was in the sky, creeping over the 
fields, putting yellower tints into Thyrza’s butter skin 
and a web of gold over her ashen hair. Gradually it 
seemed to flower in the dusk till all the field was lit up 
. . . the mounds and molehills with hollows scooped 
darkly against the light, the pond like thick yellow glass, 
the willows like drooping flame. The picture became 
graven on Tom’s heart — the grey sky blooming with light 
and shedding it down on the field of the mounds and 
molehills, the pond, the willows, and the woman drows- 
ing in his arms — so that when later in France he thought 
of England, he thought of it only as that willow-pond 
at the opening of Sunday Street, and Thyrza Honey 
lying heavy and warm and sweet against his breast. 

“ Hold me close, Tom, dearie — hold me close, so’s I 
doan’t hear the war. Aun’t it queer how our hearts beat 
louder than the guns ! ...” 




PART III : THYRZA 


T HAT autumn and winter there was a lot of talk 
in the papers about food. Wedged into news of 
the Ancre and Beaumont Hamel, the crumpling- 
up of Roumania under von Mackensen, and President 
Wilson's Peace Note, came paragraphs and letters and 
articles on food and the ways of economising and pro- 
ducing it. The latter most troubled Harry, as he thought 
of the modest spring-sowings of Worge. If it was indeed 
true that the German U-boats were threatening the coun- 
try's wheat supply, might it not be as well to reclaim the 
old tillage of the Sunk Field or even break up grassland 
in the high meadows by Bucksteep ? 

Harry did not often read the papers, getting all his 
news from the Daily Express poster which Mrs. Honey 
displayed outside the shop when the papers arrived at 
noon ; but when paper-restrictions brought posters to an 
end, he went skimming through Mus’ Beatup’s Sussex 
News , and one day skimming was changed to plodding 
by a very solid article on wheat-production and the pres- 
ent needs. 

In many ways it was a revelation to Harry. Though 
he had been a farm-boy all his life it had never struck 
him till then that grain-growing was of any importance 
to the nation, or imagined that the Worge harvests mat- 
tered outside Worge. The fields, the stock had been to 
him all so many means of livelihood, and the only motive 
of himself and his fellow-workers the negative one of 

115 


116 


THE FOUR ROADS 


keeping Worge from the auctioneer’s. If he ever realised 
his part in the great adventure, it was only when he saw 
his duty to keep the place together for Tom to fight for. 
This was his newest and highest motive, and when he 
refused the call of distant woods, broke with the Brown- 
bread rat-and-sparrow club, and paid no more than a 
business visit to Senlac Fair, it was so that Tom’s sacrifice 
should not be in vain. But here was a chap making out 
that a farmer was very nearly as important as a soldier, 
and that it was on the wheat-fields of England as well as 
on the battlefields of France that the war would be 
won. . . . 

After this, Harry always read the food-supply news, 
and pondered it. Was it indeed true that the war which 
was being waged with such gallantry and fortitude 
abroad might be lost at home? For the first time he had 
a personal interest in the struggle, apart from the in- 
terest he felt through Tom. Hitherto the war had meant 
nothing to him, because he had thought he meant nothing 
to the war — he was too young to be a soldier, probably 
always would be, since everyone said that peace would 
come next year. All he had had of warfare was the 
distant throb and grumble of guns a hundred miles away 
— not even a prowling Taube or lost Zeppelin had visited 
the country within the Four Roads. First the lighting 
order, then the liquor control, then the Conscription Act 
— only thus and indirectly had the war touched him, 
requiring of him merely a passive part. But now he saw 
that he also might take his active share, and the realisation 
set fire to his clay. 

The winter was a bad one — bitterly cold, with thick 
green ice on the ponds, and a skimming of hard snow 
on the fields, where the soil was like iron. The marshes 
of Horse Eye were sheeted with a frozen overflow, and 
the wind that rasped and whiffled from the east, stung 


THYRZA 


117 


the skin like wire, and piercing the cracks of barns, 
made the stalled cattle shiver and stamp. There was 
little work on the farm, though Harry had done his best 
to fulfil Tom's injunctions, and had carted his manure 
and turned a strong furrow to the frost. The lambing 
had been got through somehow — but two ewes and three 
or four lambs had died, as they would never have done 
if Tom had been there. At every turn Harry was faced 
by his own inexperience, and learned only at the price of 
many disappointments and much humiliation. 

But he was the type which failure only makes dogged, 
and his unsuccessful winter heleped his new sense of the 
country's need in making him plan daringly for the 
spring. He resolved that his apprenticeship should not 
last beyond the winter — it was his own fault that it had 
lasted so long — and in March he would get to business, 
and start his scheming for doubling the grain acreage of 
the farm. 

There were several acres of old tillage to be reclaimed, 
and Harry was young and daring and amateurish enough 
to contemplate also breaking up grass-land. He would 
of course have to consult his father first. Mus' Beatup 
had spent a sorry winter, “ kipping the coaid out " at the 
Rifle Volunteer. The slackness of farm work, the cold 
and discomfort of the weather, the growing unpalatable- 
ness of his meals, all combined for worse results than 
usual, and by the time of the keen wintry spring there 
was no denying that a good slice of both his physical and 
mental vigour had been eaten away. However, he was 
still the nominal head of the farm, and must be consulted 
— Tom would have had it so. Unfortunately, Harry 
chose the wrong day. Mus' Beatup was sober, but suf- 
fering from an internal chill as a result of having lain for 
an hour in the frozen slush a couple of nights ago, before 
Nimrod the watch-dog found him and brought Harry out 


118 


THE FOUR ROADS 


with his frantic barks. To-day he sat by the fire, shud- 
dering and muttering to himself, drinking a cup of hot 
cocoa and swearing at his wife because there was no 
sugar in it. 

“ I can't git none," wailed Mrs. Beatup. “ I tried at 
the shop, and Nell tried in Brownbread Street, and Ivy's 
tried in Dallington, and Harry asked when he wur over 
at Senlac market. ..." 

“ And have you tried Rushlake Green and Punnetts 
Town and Three Cups Corner and Heathfield and Hell- 
inglye and Hailsham? You try a bit further afore you 
dare to give me this stuff." 

“ But there aun't none in the whole country — so I've 
heard tell." 

“ Maybe. Reckon Govunmunt’s got it all, saum as 
they’ve got all the beer and the spirits. They’ve got 
pounds and pounds of it, those there Cabinick Ministers, 
and eat it for breakfast and dinner and tea. I tell you 
I’m dog-sick of this war, and I’m hemmed if I move 
another step to help a Govunmunt as taakes fust our 
beer and then our boys, and then our sugar " — and Mus' 
Beatup spat dramatically into the fire, as if it were 
Whitehall. 

The moment was not propitious, but Harry had to 
consider the weather, which showed possibilities that 
must be made use of at once. Mus’ Beatup listened 
wearily to his suggestions. 

“ Oh, it's more wheat as they want, is it? They're 
going to take that next. . . . Reclaim the oald tillage? 
Wot did we let it go fallow fur, if it wurn’t cos it dudn’t 
pay the labour? . . . Break up the grass-land? You’ll 
be asking to plough the kitchen floor next." 

“ If we doan’t do summat, I reckon we'll be maade to." 

“ Reckon we will — saum as we wur maade to give up 
Tom. And they say this country's fighting Prussian 
tyranny." 


THYRZA 


119 


“ Well, faather, if we doan’t grow more corn we’ll 
lose the war. I wur reading in the paapers as all our 
corn and wheat used to come from furrin parts, but now, 
wud ships wanted to carry soldiers and them hemmed 
U-boats spannelling around. ...” 

“ You talk lik the Sussex News. Wot d’you want to 
go vrothering about them things fur? You do your work 
and doan’t go roving.” 

“ Faather, I aun’t bin roving all this winter.” 

“ No, you aun’t — that’s a good lad, fur sartain 
sure.” 

“ And if you let me do this job, I promise I’ll stick to 
it and pull it through.” 

“ You might as well chuck your money into the pond 
as spend it on grain-growing nowadays.” 

“ Not wud all these new arrangements the Govun- 
munt’s maade . . . guaranteed prices and all. Oh, 
faather, let me try as I said. I want to do my bit saum 
as Tom.” 

“ Seemingly your bit’s to land Worge at the auc- 
tioneer’s. Howsumdever, do wot you lik — I’m ill and 
helpless and oald. I can’t stop you. Now adone do 
wud all this vrotherification of a poor sick man, and 
ask mother to let me have a spoonful of syrup in this 
nasty muck.” 


2 

So on Harry, sixteen years old, with little or no 
experience, and a bad character to live down, fell the 
task of bringing Worge into line with a national en- 
deavour. It was strange how his earthy imagination had 
taken fire at the new idea, and a curious justification of 
the Press. A sense of patriotism had wakened in him, 
as it had not wakened in Tom after nearly a twelve- 
month’s service. Tom was no longer indifferent or un- 
willing, but his enthusiasm scarcely went beyond the regi- 


120 


THE FOUR ROADS 


ment — the feeling of “ Sussex chaps ” — the idea of fight- 
ing for Worge, or, at the most abstract, “ having a whack 
at Kayser Bill.” 

He had been in France about three months now. He 
had not been sent over as soon as he expected, but in 
November there had been a big draft from the 18th 
Sussex, including Tom and Jerry and Bill, also Mus’ 
Archie — Mus’ Dixon, who had been badly gassed on the 
Somme, stayed behind in charge of “ School,” and 
rumour said that he would not be sent out again. So 
far Tom seemed to have had a far duller time abroad 
than in England ; he had not so much as seen a German,' 
and his letters home were chiefly about mud. The 
family jealously hinted that his letters to Thyrza Honey 
were more entertaining. However, he kept his promise 
to Harry, and sent him councillor postcards now and 
again. The last had consisted of just one word — 
“ spuds ! ” 

That was the spring when potatoes were being sold at 
sixpence a pound in Eastbourne and Hastings, and such 
inducements were held out to growers, that instead of 
the usual modest half-acre, Harry intended to make pota- 
toes part of his new scheme. The two-acre was in 
potash this year, also the home field, and Harry decided 
to break up the pasture-land next the orchard. Some 
of the space would have to be used for roots — swedes 
and wurzels — but there would be a spud-growing such 
as Worge had never seen in its history. 

Then there was the more ticklish problem of the 
grain, and what kinds to sow. Harry took Tom’s advice 
and decided on Sandy oats for the Street field and the 
field next the Volunteer. In the home field he would 
grow awned wheat — and red spring wheat on the re- 
claimed tillage of the Sunk Field. 

Then came the problem of which grass-lands to break 


121 


THYRZA 

up. If only Tom had been there to advise him! He 
dare not ask his father, in case he should withdraw his 
first permission. Breaking up grass-land is heresy to an 
orthodox farmer, and it was quite possible that Mus’ 
Beatup would change his mind when it came to the crisis. 
For this reason Harry said no more about it, and planned 
craftily to start work on one of his father’s “ bad days,” 
when he would not be likely to interfere. Left without 
counsel, he decided to break up the rest of the Sunk Field, 
also Forges Field, and an old pasture at the Bucksteep 
end of the farm. These were wretched soils and would 
have to be heavily manured ; but none of the soils round 
Worge was really good, and some decent grass must be 
left for the cows and ewes. Manures were scarce and 
dear, owing to the war, but Harry thought he could make 
shift with the farmyard dung, supplemented by a little 
night-soil, and a ton of waste from the gypsum mines 
near Robertsbridge. 

All this cost him more thinking than he had ever done 
in his life. Once or twice he lay awake from bed-time 
till dawn, adding up figures, working out ways and 
means, and making plans for settling any opposition, 
drunk or sober, from Mus’ Beatup. His responsibility 
was enormous, but he was at bottom too simple-minded 
to feel the full weight of it, and his enthusiasm flamed 
as clear as ever. By crabbed and common means — even 
the smudgy columns of a provincial newspaper — the 
vision had come to a country boy’s heart, and found 
there a divine, undeveloped quality of imagination, and 
an undisciplined power of enterprise. These two, which 
had hitherto united to keep him from his work, were now 
forged together in the heat of the new idea. But for the 
first he would never have heard the call, and the second 
alone made it possible that he should obey it. 


122 


THE FOUR ROADS 


3 

Harry could not help laughing at the faces of Juglery 
and Elphick when he told them he meant to plough the 
Sunk Field. 

“ Break up grass, Mus’ Harry ! ” 

“ Surelye ! They’re asking farmers all over the country 
to grow more wheat.” 

“ Does Maaster know as you mean to plough the 
Sunk?” 

“ Reckon he does. I cud never do it wudout he let 
me.” 

“ Well,” said old Juglery, “ I’ve bin on farm-work man 
and boy these dunnamany year, and Fve only bruk up 
grass two times, and no good come of it, nuther. Wunst 
it wur fur oald Mus’ Backfield up at Odiam, him wot 
caum to nighe a hundred year, and then took a fit last 
fall and died of joy when he heard as wheat wur ninety 
shillings a quarter. T’other wur pore young Mus’ Pix 
of the Trulilows, and he bruk up a valiant pasture, and 
the oats caum up crawling about like pease, and each had 
a gurt squlgy root lik a pertater. I says to him, being 
young and joking like in those days, ‘ You’re unaccount- 
able lucky,’ says I, ‘ to grow pease and pertaters on the 
same stalk,’ but he took it to heart, and went and shot 
himself in the oast. So you see as boath the yeomen I 
bruk up grass fur died, one o’ joy and t’other o’ sorrow.” 

“ Well, I shan’t die of nuther, and we’ll have the 
plough out Thursday if the weather hoalds.” 

The men were getting used to being ordered about by 
Harry. Mus’ Beatup’s chill had gone off in a twisting 
bout of rheumatism, which returned every now and then 
with damp weather. He spent, therefore, a good deal of 
time in the house, with sometimes a hobble as far as the 
Rifle Volunteer, appearing only in the dry, frosty weather 



r 


THYRZA 


123 




when little could be done with harrow or plough. How- 
ever, when neighbouring farmers began to remark on the 
enterprise of Worge, he was careful to take the credit 
to himself — indeed he almost fancied that it was his own 
doing, for Harry, who could have done nothing without 
his authority, was careful to consult him on every oc- 
casion, and it was Mus’ Beatup who ordered the grain 
and checked the accounts, with many groans and dismal 
foretellings. 

Those were good days for Harry, behind his plough. 
Under the soft grey spring sky, rifted and stroked by 
wandering primrose lights, through the damp air that 
smelled of living mould, over the brown earth that rolled 
and sprayed like a wave from the driving coulter, he 
toiled sweating in the raw March cold. The smell of 
earth, the smell of his own sweat, the smell of the sweat 
of his horses hung thick over the plough, but every now 
and then soft damp puffs of air would blow into the 
miasma the fragrance of grass and primrose buds, of 
sticky, red, uncurling leaves, and the new moss in the 
woods. The share gleamed against the dun, and the 
brown twigs of the copses drew their spindled tracery 
against a sky which was the paler colour of earth — some- 
times a shower would fall, slanting along the hedges, the 
thick drops tasting on Harry’s lips of the unfulfilled 
spring. 

His work made him very tired. After all, he was 
barely seventeen, and though sturdy had only just begun 
to use his strength. The work of the farm was much 
increased by the new plan, yet it was impossible to bring 
extra hands to it, except occasionally by the conscription 
of Zacky. Harry milked and ploughed and scattered and 
dug, rising in the foggy blue darkness of the morning, 
and often sitting up late over calculations and accounts. 
Elphick and Juglery gave a pottering, rheumatic service, 


124 


THE FOUR ROADS 


Mils’ Beatup could only be irregularly relied upon. So 
in time Harry learned what it was to doze off out of sheer 
weariness over his supper, or fall across the bed asleep 
before he had pulled his trousers off. But strangely 
enough, he found the life no hardship. Before the first 
thrill of enterprise had passed he was beginning to like 
the work for its own sake. There was a new keen 
pleasure in the wearing of his muscles, almost a physical 
luxury in his fatigue, and the lying with spread limbs 
before the fire of evenings. His life seemed good and 
full — everything was worth while, eating or sleeping or 
toiling or resting. For the earth sometimes makes of her 
servants lovers. 

He was far too busy during his working hours and 
weary during his leisure to find much temptation in his 
old errant pleasures. Willie Sinden appealed in vain to 
a grimy, sweaty Harry asleep for an hour before the 
fire at night — he was too unaccountable wearied to 
vrother about ratting or Willie’s new ferret; and he 
went to Senlac and Heathfield and Hailsham Fairs to 
sell beasts, not to drink gingerbeer or pot into the German 
Kaiser’s mouth in the shooting-gallery. Even the distant 
woods had ceased to call, for Harry was now tasting their 
adventure in his daily work. The chocolate furrows of 
the Sunk Field were part of that same wonder which had 
teased him in the fluttering hazels of Molash Spinney or 
the wind in the gorse-thickets of Thunders Hill. The 
far-off village green of Bird-in-Eye was not more full 
of spells than the new-sown acres by Forges Wood. By 
his toil, and because he toiled as a man, from the spark 
of imagination within him, and not as a beast from the 
grind of circumstances without, he had brought the dis- 
tant adventure home. 


THYRZA 


125 


4 

In February Tom’s letters became more rousing. The 
1 8th Sussex took part in the big advance on the Ancre, 
and though Tom himself did not do anything very 
exciting, he was no longer in the humiliating position of 
having never seen a German. His descriptions of battle 
were rather fumbling — “ Then we had some tea and a 
chap got in from the Glosters who had his tunick torn 
something terrible.” — “ We come into a French village 
full of apple-trees and the walls were down so as you 
saw into the houses, and in one house there was a pot 
of ferns on the table.” He also confessed, in reply to 
a message from Zacky, that though he had seen several 
Germans, “ with faces like roots,” he had not, to his 
knowledge, killed one. 

Mus’ Beatup thought it necessary to improve on his 
son’s letters at the pub. 

“ Tom’s having valiant times,” he would say to the 
bar of the Rifle Volunteer or of the Crown at Woods 
Corner. “ He killed a German officer wud his bayunite 
and took his machine-gun. Mus’ Archie Lamb is un- 
accountable proud of him, and says he’s sure to be a 
lieutenant of the Sussex before long. He’s a good lad 
is my lad, and it’s a tedious shaum as he was tuk away 
from his praaper personal wark and maade a soldier of. 
There’s none of my folk bin soldiers up till now — it’s 
yeomen we’re born and we doan’t taake wages. . . . 
When’s he think the war ull stop? — Well, it might be 
any time, if the Govunmunt doan’t starve us all fust.” 

Sometimes Thyrza Honey brought Tom’s letters up 
to read to the family at Worge. She was rather shy of 
her future relations-in-law, who made no special effort 
to be agreeable to her. Mrs. Beatup persisted in look- 
ing on her as a designing woman who had forcibly 


126 


THE FOUR ROADS 


captured the innocent Tom, Nell was too clever for her, 
and the males were grumpy and sidling. Only Ivy 
seemed to like her, but Ivy was on bad terms with her 
family at present, as ever since young Kadwell on leave 
had forsaken his sweetheart of the Foul Mile for her 
robuster charms, and the deserted one had turned up in 
rage and dishevelment to make a personal protest at 
Worge, the Beatups had chosen to resent her “ goings 
on.” They also threw Jerry Sumption in her teeth and 
vaguely accused her of “ things.” Now no young man 
ever came to Worge without her parents lamenting that 
they had a light daughter, and rows were frequent and 
undignified. So Ivy’s liking was no recommendation of 
Thyrza, who in consequence was suspected of goings on 
herself. However, she would not give up her visits, for 
she knew Tom liked her to pay them, and often — rather 
tactlessly — sent messages to his family through her. 

Thyrza knew more about the British front and the 
Battle of the Ancre than did the Beatups. Not that 
Tom could be eloquent even to her, but her imagination, 
warmed by love, was quicker to piece together the frag- 
ments and fill in the gaps. Also he told her things that 
he would not have told the others. It was she who 
heard the details of the great occasion on which he first 
actually and personally killed a German. 

“ I was sentry, and you always feel as the place is full 
of Boshes, and you think you see them and it isn’t 
them. Then one night after moon-up I thought I saw 
a Bosh over against the enemy wire, and I said to my- 
self as he wasn’t a Bosh really, though my hair was all 
standing up on my head. Then he moved and I let 
fly with my rifle as I’ve done umpty times at nothing, 
and then he was still and I saw him hanging on the wire. 
Reckon he was dead, but I went on putting round after 
round into him I felt so queer — not scared only kind 


THYRZA 


127 


of enjoying it like as if you were shooting at the Fair, 
only I knew as I was killing something and it made me 
happy. But afterwards I got very cold and sick/’ 

“ He never tells us how he feels about things,” com- 
plained Mrs. Beatup. “ It’s never rnore’n ‘ I had my 
dinner ’ to us.” 

“ Reckon he doan’t git much time for writing letters. 
He knows as wot he tells me gits passed on to you.” 

“ Well, I’ll never say naun agaunst you, Thyrza Honey, 
but I must point out as he knew us afore he knew you. 
He’s unaccountable young to be shut of his mother, and 
it ud be praaperer if his messages wur to you through 
us.” 

Mrs. Beatup’s voice was hoarse with dignity, and 
Thyrza hung her head. 

“ I’m the last as ud ever want to taake him away 
from his mother,” she murmured — and ten days later 
Mrs. Beatup got a thick smudgy letter on which Tom 
had spent hours of ink and sweat in obedience to Thyrza’s 
command. 


5 

About a fortnight later an impudent-looking little girl 
with a big mouth came wobbling up Worge drive on a 
bicycle, and from a wallet extracted a telegram which she 
handed to Zacky, who sat on the doorstep peeling a stick. 
Zacky ran with it to his mother, who refused to open it. 

“ I’ll have no truck with telegrams — they’re bad things. 
Fetch your faather.” 

Zacky ran off in great excitement, and soon Mus’ 
Beatup came lumbering in, very red after planting 
potatoes. 

“ Wot’s all this, mother? — another of those hemmed 
telegrams ? ” 

“ Yes, and I reckon Tom’s killed this time.” 


128 


THE FOUR ROADS 


“ Can't be — we only got a letter last night." 

“ Ivy says they taake four days to come over. He 
may have bin killed this mornun — got a shell in his 
stomach lik Viner’s poor young boy." 

“ Maybe it’s to say he’s coming hoame," said Zacky. 

“ Shurrup ! ’’ growled his father. 

He tore the envelope, with a queer twitching of the 
corners of his mouth. 

“ He aun’t killed," he said shakily — “ only wounded." 

A moan came from the mother’s parted lips, and she 
closed her eyes. 

“ Maybe it’s naun very tar’ble," continued the father. 
“ They said ‘ serious ’ in Mus’ Viner’s telegram ; here it’s 
only — 4 regret to inform you that Private Beatup has been 
wounded in action.’ " 

“ Will they let me go to him? ’’ 

“ Aun’t likelv — he’s over in France." 

Mrs. Beatup did not cry, but all the colour went from 
her face and her lips were strangely blue. Then sud- 
denly her head fell over the back of the chair. 

“ Zacky ! ’’ shouted Mus’ Beatup — “ fetch the whisky 
bottle that’s in the pocket of my oald coat behind the 
door." 

He put his arm round his wife, and lifted her head to 
his shoulder, while Zacky ran off with piercing howls. 
These were fortunately louder than those of the poor 
duck whose neck Ivy was wringing outside the stable. 
She rushed in, all bloody from her victim, and in a few 
moments had laid her mother on the floor, unfastened 
her dingy remains of stays, and dabbled her forehead 
with water, while Mus’ Beatup, relieved of his steward- 
ship, stumped about, groaning, and drank the whisky 
himself. In the midst of it all the big-mouthed little 
girl, forgotten in the drive, started beating on the door 
and demanding “ if there was an answer, please." 


THYRZA 


129 


Zacky was sent to dismiss her and vented his grief on 
the messenger of woe by putting out his tongue at her 
till she was out of sight — a salute which she returned 
with all the increased opportunities that nature had given 
her. 

Mrs. Beatup soon recovered. 

“ I caum over all swummy like . . . this is the first 
time I’ve swounded since Zacky wur born ... I reckon 
this is sharper than childbirth." 

The tears came at last, and she sobbed against Ivy's 
bosom. 

“ Doan't go vrothering, mother. I tell you it's naun 
tar'ble. They said ‘ seriously * when poor Sid Viner wur 
wounded to death, and Ted Podgani in Gallipoli. Maybe 
they'll send him hoame soon." 

“ I want to go to him. . . . He's got a hole in him. 
. . . Why do they kip his mother from him when he's 
sick ? When he had measles he never let go my hand one 
whole day, and he said, ‘ Stay wud me, mother — I feel 
tedious bad.' Maybe he's saying it now." 

“ And maybe he aun't. Maybe he’s setting up in bed 
eating chicken and drinking wine, wud no more’n a piece 
off his big toe." 

She took out a dirty handkerchief and wiped her 
mother's eyes. Then she said : 

“ I maun go and tell Thyrza Honey." 

6 

But the fates had decided to honour Tom's mother 
above his sweetheart in that it was she alone who bore 
the full grief of his wounding. On her way to the shop, 
Ivy met Thyrza engaged in something as near a run as 
her plump person was capable of, and waving in her 
hand a letter. It was a pencil-scrawl written in hospital 


130 


THE FOUR ROADS 


at Boulogne, telling Thyrza not to vrother, because he 
was doing valiant. He had got a Blighty one and hoped 
to be sent home soon. It was nothing serious, only a 
bit of shrap in his foot. “ Didn’t I tell mother as it was 
no more’n a piece off his big toe?” cried Ivy trium- 
phantly. 

The letter had been Thyrza’s first news of Tom’s 
wound, and all the anxiety and yearning she felt were 
swallowed up in the joy of his coming home. A few 
days later she had a telegram from him, telling of his 
arrival in hospital at Eastbourne, and by this time Mrs. 
Beatup had recovered sufficiently to resent the fact that 
it had been sent to Thyrza and not to her. 

Everyone was glad that Tom was at Eastbourne, as it 
could be reached from Sunday Street in a few hours by 
carrier’s cart and train. The very next morning Mrs. 
Beatup and Mrs. Honey set out together, the latter with 
a basket of eggs and flowers, and her pockets bulging 
with Player’s cigarettes, the former nursing a weighty 
dough-cake, beloved of Tom in ancient times, and so 
baked that she fondly hoped he would never notice the 
nearly total absence of sugar and plums. Thyrza looked 
very unlike herself in a close-fitting blue jersey and 
knitted cap; Mrs. Beatup wore what she called her Sun- 
day cape, which is to say the cape she would have worn 
<on Sundays if she had ever had the leisure to go out, 
likewise her Sunday bonnet (similarly conditioned), made 
of black straw and bearing a good crop of wheat. 

The two women went by carrier’s cart to Hailsham, 
where they took the train, arriving at Eastbourne soon 
after one. They went first to a creamery, where they 
rather hesitatingly ordered poached eggs and a pot of 
tea. The eggs were stale and the tea had not that 
“ body ” which their custom required. Mrs. Beatup 
began to wonder what Tom was getting to eat — if this 


THYRZA 131 

was what you got when you paid for it, what did you 
get when you didn’t pay for it? she’d like to know. 

She was a little relieved at the sight of Tom, looking 
much fatter and browner and better in hospital than 
she had ever seen him outside it. He looked happy, 
too, with his broad face all grins to see them, his mother 
and sweetheart. And since he looked so brown and well 
and happy, she wondered why it was that she wanted 
so much to cry. 

Thyrza did not want to cry. She held Tom’s hand, 
and laughed, and was quite talkative, for her. She 
made him tell her over and over again how he had been 
wounded, and how they had taken him to the base hos- 
pital and then to Boulogne, and then in a hospital ship 
all signed with the cross to Blighty. Mrs. Beatup made 
up her mind that next time she would come alone. 

And so she did — much to the surprise of her family, 
who had hitherto found her full of qualms and fears even 
at the thought of a visit to Senlac. 

“ I mun have my boy to myself whiles I’ve got the 
chance,” she said. 

“ Well,” remarked Ivy tactlessly, “ I reckon he’d sooner 
have you separate — he’ll be wanting Thyrza aloan a bit.” 

“ Will he, miss? That aun’t why I’m going different 
days. We aun’t all Hk you wud your kissings and lover- 
ings. I wish to goodness you’d git married and have 
done.” 

“ And taake some poor boy away from his mother,” 
mocked Ivy. “ I wouldn’t be so cruel.” 

Her mother made a swoop at her with her open hand, 
but Ivy dodged, and ran off, laughing good-naturedly. 

None of the other Beatups ever went to see Tom at 
Eastbourne. The journey was too expensive, and they 
were sure to have him home on leave before long. Mrs. 
Beatup went about twice a week, with various messages 


132 


THE FOUR ROADS 


from the rest of the family muddled up in her head. She 
would sit beside him, holding his hand, strangely deli- 
cate with sickness, between her own hard, cracked, work- 
weary ones, wishing that they coitld find more to say to 
each other, and at the same time cherishing those num- 
bered moments when she could have him to herself. 
Thyrza went oftener, shutting up shop with a reckless- 
ness that would have ruined a less personal business. 
Tom’s only other visitor was the Reverend Mr. Sump- 
tion. 

He came one afternoon to inquire about Jerry, but 
Tom could not tell him much. Jerry kept away from 
him, and the little that Beatup knew of his doings he 
was anxious to conceal from his father. 

“ Maybe now he’s out there he’ll get on better,” he 
suggested. 

“ Better? He’s always done well,” said Mr. Sumption 
loftily. “ He’ll have to do unaccountable well if he does 
better. Don’t think, Tom, that I came to you because 
I doubted my son, but he was never much of a letter- 
writer, and now, being busy and all ...” 

That night Tom lay awake an hour or so, thinking of 
parents. It was queer how they stuck to their children. 
His mother, now, coming all this way to see him, though 
she was nervous of the journey and had very little money 
to spend on it. . . . Mr. Sumption, too, standing up for 
that lousy tyke of a Jerry. . . . Would he ever feel like 
this for one of his own flesh — not only when that one lay 
helpless and dependent on him, but had gone out from 
him and chosen his own path? “ Even as a father pitieth 
his children . . .” so the Bible said, and seemingly there 
was no bound or end to that pity. Perhaps one day he 
would feel it in his own heart (the curve of Thyrza’s 
arms made him think of a cradle). He remembered what 
Mr. Sumption had said to him long ago, the night before 


THYRZA 133 

he joined up — “ You’ll understand a bit of what I feel 
. . . some day when you’re the father of a son.” 

7 

Perhaps it was the inactivity of the days that made 
Tom lie awake so much at night. He generally had an 
hour or two to wait for sleep, and it seemed as if in those 
hours his thoughts jumped and raced in a way they 
never did by daylight. It was in those hours that he 
formed his resolution to marry Thyrza before he went 
back to France. When he left hospital he would prob- 
ably have a fortnight or so at home, and they could be 
married at once by licence. Then, he felt, with a sudden 
swallowing in his throat, he would have had his little bit 
of life, even if Fritz cut it short before he could see those 
arms he loved become the cradle he had dreamed them. 

The future meant even less to him now than the past. 
An almighty present ruled the world in those days, for 
it was all that a man could call his own. Lord ! if that 
crump had dropped a few yards nearer, he might have 
lost the chances he was grabbing now. He wondered 
how a year ago he could ever have dreamed and dawdled 
over his love for Thyrza, put off its declaration to a vague 
and distant time which might never be. It was queer 
how he had counted on the future then, made plans for 
doing things “ sometime.” The last year had taught him 
how close that sometime stood to Never. Not that Tom 
felt any forebodings. Indeed, he had the optimistic 
fatalism of most soldiers. He was safe until a shell came 
along with his number on, and then — well, many better 
chaps’ numbers had been up before his. Meantime, it 
was his business to seize the present hour and all it con- 
tained, nor, when he planted, think of gathering, nor in 
the seed-time drearn of harvest. 


134 


THE FOUR ROADS 


He never doubted Thyrza’s readiness, and was a little 
surprised when she mentioned things like “ gitting some 
cloathes,” and “ having the house done.” Experience 
had not yet taught her to mistrust the future — for her 
to-morrow always came, and must be decently prepared 
for. However, when she saw how desperately Tom was 
set on marriage, she brushed aside the scruples of habit 
with a heroism they both of them failed to see. 

“ I’ll marry you soon as you come hoame, dear, and 
then we can have a bit of honeymoon.” 

“ We’ll go away. I’ll take you to Hastings, maybe — 
we’ll git a room there.” 

“ Oh, Tom! Lik a grand couple! We mun’t go 
chucking the money away.” 

“ We woan’t chuck it all away, but we’ll chuck a fair- 
sized bit. I doan’t git much chance of spending out 
there.” 

She looked at him tenderly. 

“ To think as I ever thought you wur slower nor me ! ” 

“I wur a gurt owl,” said Tom. “Lord! if I’d a-gone 
West, and never so much as kissed you ...” 

“ But you did kiss me, dear — in the shop, the evenun 
afore you went away.” 

“ Twur only your hand, and I wur all quaaking like a 
calf.” 

Thyrza sighed. 

“ It wur a lovely kiss.” 

The Beatups were naturally indignant at Tom’s 
decision. To them it savoured of undue haste, if not of 
indecency. Courtships in Sunday Street usually lasted 
from two to ten years. Indeed, Maudie Speldrum had 
been wooed for fifteen years before she took matters into 
her own hands and proposed to Bert Pix. Tom had not 
been engaged to Thyrza six months. What did they 
want to get married for? And what was Tom but a lad? 


THYRZA 


135 


— a mere child in his mother’s eyes — a calf that Mrs. 
Honey was leading to market, ail ignorant (as she could 
not be) of what lay ahead. In Sunday Street, marriage 
was the end — the end of love, the end of youth — and 
mixed with Mrs. Beatup’s jealousy of the other woman 
and suspicion of her motives, was the desire to keep her 
son a little longer in the frisky meadows of his boyhood 
before he was led to those lean pastures she knew so well. 

8 

About the middle of March, Tom was moved to a 
convalescent hospital at Polegate, and a fortnight later 
sent home. Worge gave him a big hail, and the whole 
family, including Thyrza, sat down to a supper which 
was supposed to outshine the best efforts of hospital. 
That supper was not only a welcome but a farewell. 
When he had eaten two more in the muddle of his kin, 
he would eat a third in quiet, alone with Thyrza. The 
few necessary preparations for his marriage had been 
made, and the room was booked in Hastings for the third 
day from now. His happiness made him dreamy, and 
also tender towards those he was to leave, for though he 
had not realised his mother’s jealousy of his sweetheart, 
he vaguely understood that it would hurt her to lose 
him, as lose him she must when he went to this other 
woman’s arms. So he held her hand under the table 
oftener and longer than he held Thyrza’s, and kissed her 
good night without being asked. 

The next day Harry took him to see the spring sow- 
ings. They were finished now, and the chocolate acres 
lay moist and furrowed in a muffle of misty April sun- 
shine. Harry, more thickset and sinewy than of old, 
tramped a little behind his brother, as a workman after 
an inspector, with sidelong glance at Tom’s brown, stub- 


/ 


136 THE FOUR ROADS 

born orofile, anxious to see if praise or delight could be 
read there. 

Tom was indeed delighted with the fruits of Harry’s 
industry, swelling in soft, scored curves from Worge’s 
southern boundaries at Forges Wood to the northern 
limits of the Street. But he was also aghast. 

“ You’ll never have the labour to kip and reap this — 
and you’ve bruk up grass ! ” 

“ I can manage valiant till harvest, and then I’ll git 
extra hands. As for the grass, ’twur only an old-fool’s 
idea that it mun never be ploughed.” 

“ And I reckon ’tis a young-fool’s idea to plough it,” 
said Tom rebukingly. 

“ The newspaaper said as grass-lands mun be bruk up 
now, to maake more acres.” 

“ And wot does the paaper know about it? ” 

“ A lot, seemingly.” 

“ It aun’t lik to know more than men as have worked 
on the ground all their lives, and their faathers before 
’em. Any farmer ull tell you as it’s hemmed risky to 
plough grass.” 

“ The paaper never said as it wurn’t risky, but it said 
as farmers must taake some risks these times, and git 
good crops fur the country, and help on the War.” 

“ Doan’t you go vrothering about the War, youngster. 
It aun’t no concern of yourn — and I reckon it woan’t 
help us Sussex boys much if our farms go to the auc- 
tioneer’s while we’re away.” 

“ Worge woan’t go to the auctioneer’s. You spik lik 
faather wud his faint heart. And a lot of good it’ll do 
if you chaps beat the Germans out there and we have to 
maake peace ’cos we’re starving wud hunger at home.” 
“ There’ll be no starving — you taake it from me. 
We’ll have ’em across the Rhine in another six months, 
so ‘ kip the home-fires burning till the lads’ returning,’ 





THYRZA 




THYRZA 137 

and doan’t go mucking up the farm fur the saake of a 
lot of silly stuff you read in the paapers.” 

But Harry stuck doggedly to his idea — 

“ I mun try, Tom — and I’ll never git the plaace sold 
up, fur we’re spending naun extra save fur the seed and 
a bit of manure. I go unaccountable wary, and do most 
of the wark myself, wud faather to help me on his good 
days, and Juglery and Elphick stuck on jobs as they can’t 
do no harm at. It’ll do Worge naun but good in the end 
— wheat’s at eighty shilling a quarter, and guaranteed — 
and anyhow, I tell you, I mun try.” 

Tom was impressed. 

“ Well, Harry, I woan’t say you aun’t a good lad. 
But it maakes me unaccountable narvous. Here have 
I bin toiling and sweating this five year jest to kip the 
farm together, and now you go busting out all round and 
saying it ull win the War. Wot if we chaps out there 
doan’t win, t’aun’t likely as you will. How- 
sumdever ...” 


9 

Tom’s marriage was on the Thursday of Easter week. 
All the morning a soft teeming fog lay over the fields, 
drawing out scents of growth and warmth and life. 
Worge lay in the midst of it like the ghost of a farm, a 
dim grey shadow on the whiteness, and the voices of her 
men came muffled, as in dreams. Towards noon the 
sunshine had begun to eat away the mist — it grew yel- 
lower, streakier, and at last began to scatter, rolling up 
the fields in solemn clouds, balling and pilling itself 
against the hedges, melting into the April green of the 
woods ; and then suddenly it was gone — sucked up into 
the sky, sucked down into the earth, living only in a few 
drops in the cups of violets. 

The Bethel stared away across the fields to Puddle- 


138 


THE FOUR ROADS 


dock. For some time its roof, with the chipped Geor- 
gian pediment, had risen above the mist. Then the 
grim windows had come out to stare, and then the 
tombstones that grew round its feet, leaning and totter- 
ing among the chapel weed. 

Tom and Thyrza were to be married at the Bethel. 
This had caused some surprise in the neighbourhood, 
as the Beatups had always been “ Church but friend- 
ship and convenience had led to the decision — friendship 
for the Reverend Mr. Sumption, because Tom knew him 
better than Mr. Poullet-Smith, and was sorry for him on 
account of Jerry, convenience because the chapel was 
close at hand, and the makers of the wedding breakfast 
would have time to run across and witness the ceremony, 
which they could not have done had it taken place at 
Brownbread Street, two miles away. 

The only one to whom these reasons seemed inade- 
quate was Nell. To her the proceeding was not only 
heretical but mean — her affection for the Church had 
always been led by taste rather than belief, and her atti- 
tude, which she had considered (under instruction) as 
that of an orthodox Anglican, was in reality that of an 
Italian peasant, who looks upon his church as his draw- 
ing-room, a place of brightness to which he can go for 
refuge from the drabness of every day. Her opposition 
to the chapel marriage was based on an emotion similar to 
what she would have felt for the party who, with the 
chance of eating and drinking out of delicate china in 
the drawing-room, chose to devour their food out of 
broken pots in the scullery. She did not acknowledge 
this, any more than she acknowledged the motive which 
fed uneasily on Mr. Poullett-Smith’s inevitable disgust; 
she talked to Tom about his duty as a Baptized Church- 
man, and was both surprised and grieved to find that the 


THYRZA 139 

War seemed to have destroyed what little sense of this 
he had ever had. 

“ I tell you as it’s all different out there. There aun’t 
no church and chapel saum as there is here. You stick 
to church on Church Parade down at the base, but 
when you’re up in the firing line, there’s a queer kind 
of religion going around. You hear chaps praying as 
if they wur swearing and swearing as if they wur pray- 
ing, and in the Y.M. plaace they have sort of holy sing- 
songs wud priests and ministers all mixed up; and I’ve 
heard a Catholic priest read the English funeral over one 
of us, and I’ve seen a rosary on a dead Baptist’s neck. 
Church and chapel may be all very good for civvies, but 
you can’t go vrothering about such things when you’re 
a soldier.” 

Nell was hurt and frightened by these sayings. She 
had an idea that any danger or suffering would only 
make a man cling closer to the Sanctuary. It was terrible 
to think that at the first earthquake Peter’s Rock cracked 
to its foundations. A defiant loyalty inspired her, and at 
first she made up her mind not to go to the wedding, but 
she could not resist the temptation of asking Mr. Poul- 
lett-Smith’s advice, and he thought she had better attend, 
and pray for the backsliders. He also earnestly bade her 
distrust any appearance of cracks in Peter’s Rock, and 
she went away comforted, with shining eyes and burning 
cheeks, and her church standing firmer than ever on the 
rock which was neither Peter nor Christ, but her love for 
a very ordinary young man. 

So all the Beatups went to the Bethel, leaving Worge 
locked up and the yard in charge of Elphick. Mrs. 
Beatup wore her Sunday bonnet, the wheat-crop having 
been superseded, contrary to all the laws of rotation, 
by one of small green grapes. Both Ivy and Nell had 


140 


THE FOUR ROADS 


new gowns, Ivy looking squeezed and unnatural in a 
sky-blue cloth, which together wjth a pair of straight- 
fronted corsets, she had bought at a- /Hastings dress 
agency — Nell pretty and demure in a grey coat and 
skirt, and one of those small towny-looking hats which 
seemed to find their way to her head alone in all Dalling- 
ton. Mus’ Beatup, with Harry and Zacky, smelled 
strongly of hair-oil and moth-killer, and Harry had 
nearly scrubbed his skin off in his efforts to get out of 
it the earth of his new furrows. He was considered too 
young to be Tom's best man, and the office had been 
at the last moment unexpectedly filled by Bill Putland. 
Bill, now a sergeant, was home on seven days' leave, 
looking very brown and smart, and Polly Sinden, who, 
not having been invited with her parents to the break- 
fast, had vowed she would waste no time going to the 
chapel, suddenly changed her mind and appeared in her 
most ceremonial hat. 

The chapel was packed with Sindens, Bourners, 
Putlands, Hubbles, Viners, Kadwells, Pixes. Mrs. 
Lamb of Bucksteep was there, with Miss Marian, but 
as she had not thought it necessary to put on the elegant 
clothes in which she was seen gliding into church on Sun- 
days, her presence was regarded as an affront rather 
than an honour; Mrs. Beatup would have dressed herself 
in her best for any Bucksteep wedding, and thought that 
the squire’s wife might have done the same for her. 
Also, she came in very late, and her entrance was mis- 
taken for that of the bride by many folk, who shot up 
, out of the pew-boxes, only to be disappointed by the sight 
of Mrs. Lamb’s faded, powdered features behind a 
spotted veil, and Miss Marian swinging along after her 
with a tread like a policeman. “ I reckon my feet are 
smaller than hers,” thought Nell, “ for all that I'm only^ 
a farmer’s daughter.” 


THYRZA 


141 


Then Mr. Sumption came out of the vestry, and stood 
under the pulpit to wait for the bride. He looked more 
like a figure of cursing than of blessing — black as a rook, 
with his thick curly hair falling into his eyes, yet not 
quite hiding the furrows which the plough of care had 
dragged across his forehead. There was a rustle and a 
flutter and a turning of heads, as Thyrza came up the 
aisle on the arm of the bachelor cousin who was giving 
her away. She wore a grey gown like a March cloud, 
and carried a bunch of flowers, and the congregation 
whispered when they saw that she had sleeked her 
feathery hair with water, so that it lay smooth behind 
her ears, which were round and pink like those of mice. 
“ It didn’t look like Thyrza,” everyone said — and per- 
haps that was why Tom was so loutishly nervous, and 
nearly broke Bill Putland’s heart with his fumblings and 
stutterings. 

Thyrza was nervous too, her head drooped like an 
over-blown rose upon its stalk, and Mr. Sumption’s 
manner was not of the kind that soothes and reassures. 
He shouted at the bride and bridegroom, and “ thumped 
at ” various members of the congregation who whis- 
pered or (later in the proceedings) yawned. He was 
not often asked to officiate at weddings, and had ap- 
parently decided to make the most of this one, for he 
wound up with an address to the married pair so lengthy 
and apocalyptic that Mrs. Beatup became anxious as 
to the fate of a pudding she had left to “ cook itself,” 
and rising noisily in her pew creaked out through a 
silence weighted with doom. “ And whosoever hath 
not a wedding garment,” the minister shouted after her, 
“ shall be cast into the outer darkness, where there is 
weeping and gnashing of teeth ” — for which Mrs. Beatup 
never forgave him, as she had spent nearly three shil- 
lings on retrimming her bonnet, “ and if her cape wurn’t 


142 


THE FOUR ROADS 


good enough fur him, she reckoned he’d never seen a 
better on the gipsy-woman’s back.” 

The service came to an end at last, and the congrega- 
tion pushed after the bride to see her get into the cab 
drawn by a pair of seedy greys, which would take her 
the few yards from the chapel to the farm. The break- 
fast was to be at Worge, for Thyrza had no kin besides 
the bachelor cousin, and it was considered more fitting 
that her husband’s family should undertake the social 
and domestic duties of the occasion. The feast was 
spread in the kitchen, which had been decorated with 
flags, lent for the afternoon from the club-room of the 
Rifle Volunteer. The unsugared wedding-cake was a 
terrible humiliation to Mrs. Beatup, who felt sure that, 
in spite of her repeated explanations, everyone would put 
it down to poverty and meanness instead of to the tyranny 
of “ Govunmunt.” However, she had restored the bal- 
ance of her self-respect by providing wine (at eighteen- 
pence the bottle). 

There was much laughter and good-humour and the 
wit proper to weddings as the guests squeezed them- 
selves round the table. Even Mr. Sumption’s five-minute 
grace, in which he approvingly mentioned more than one 
dish on the table, but added to his score with Mrs. Beatup 
by referring to the wine as poison and “ the forerunner of 
thirst in hell,” was only a temporary blight. The bride 
and bridegroom alone looked subdued, their sleek heads 
drooping together, their hands nervously crumbling their 
food — also Ivy, who was heard to say in a hoarse whisper 
to Nell, “ If I can’t go somewheres and taake my stays 
off I shall bust.” However, in time she forgot her con- 
striction in flirting with Thyrza’s bachelor cousin, who 
had pale blue eyes, bulging out as if in vain effort to catch 
sight of a receding chin, and was exempt by reason of 
ruptured hernia from military service. 


THYRZA 


143 


The usual healths were drunk, and the sight of other 
people drinking — for he himself would take only water 
— seemed to intoxicate Mr. Sumption, and he forgot the 
cares that had made his black hair as ashes on his head — 
his sleepless anxiety for Jerry, and the crying in him of 
that day which shall burn the stubble — and became merry 
as a corn-fed colt, laughing with all his big white teeth, 
and paying iron-shod compliments to Thyrza and Ivy 
and Nell, and even Mrs. Beatup, who maintained, how- 
ever, an impressive indifference. Bill Putland made the 
principal speech of the afternoon, and looked so smart 
and handsome, with his hair in a soaring quiff and a 
trench-ring on each hand, that Ivy might have plotted to 
substitute his arm for Ern Honey’s round her waist, if 
she had not been too experienced to fail to realise that 
he was about the only man in Dallington she could not 
win with her floppy charms. 

In the end all was cheerful incoherence, and just as the 
sunshine was losing its heat on the yard-stones, the bride 
and bridegroom rose to go away. A trap from the Volun- 
teer would drive them to the station, and they climbed 
into it through a flying rainbow of confetti, which stuck 
in Thyrza’s loosening hair, and spotted her dim gown 
with colours. 

Amidst cheering and laughter the old horse lurched 
off, and soon Thyrza’s grey and Tom’s dun were blurred 
together in the distance, which was already staining with 
purple as the air thickened towards the twilight. The 
guests turned back into the house, or scattered over fields 
and footpaths. Ivy rushed upstairs to take off her stays, 
and Bill Putland swaggered home between his parents, 
with a flower in his button-hole and plans in his heart for 
an evening at Little Worge. The Reverend Mr. Sump- 
tion went off with Bourner to the smithy. The black- 
smith had a shoeing and clipping to do, and the minister 


144 * 


THE FOUR ROADS 


would sit and watch him in the red, hoof-smelling* 
warmth, and lend an experienced hand if occasion 
needed. Mus’ Beatup, his tongue all sour with the Aus- 
tralian wine, took advantage of the general flit to creep 
along the hedge to the Rifle Volunteer, there to wait for 
the magic stroke of six and unlocking of his paradise. 

Mrs. Beatup was the last to leave the doorstep. She 
thought she could hear the old horse clopping on the 
East Road, and when her eyes no longer helped her to 
follow her son, she used her ears. She remembered that 
earlier occasion when she had gone with him to the end 
of the drive and kissed him there. He had wanted her 
then ; he did not want her now — his good-bye kiss had 
been kind yet perfunctory. Another woman had him — 
a woman who had never suffered pain or discomfort or 
anxiety or privation for his sake. Yet her jealousy had 
unexpectedly died. Somehow, to-day, all that she had 
suffered for Tom when she bore him, nursed him, reared 
him and bred him, seemed a sufficient reward in itself. 
Her sufferings had made him what he was, and this other 
woman took only what she, his mother, had made. “ She 
never went heavy wud him, nor bore him in pain, nor lay 
awaake at night wud his screeching, nor thought as he'd 
die when he cut his teeth, nor went all skeered when he 
took the fever. ... So thur aun’t no sense in vrother- 
ing. Reckon he’ll always be more mine nor hers, even if 
I am never to set eyes on him agaun.” 

io 

Tom and Thyrza came back from Hastings in a few 
days. They talked as if they had been away for weeks, 
and indeed it had seemed weeks to them — not that any 
moment had faltered or dragged, but each had held the 
delight of hours, and each hour had been a day of new’ 


THYRZA 


145 


wonder. Perhaps the dazzle was brightest for Tom — 
Thyrza could remember an earlier honeymoon, which 
had held no presage of darkness to follow, and she 
slipped back pretty easily into the old habit of having 
a man about her; but for Tom even the traces of her 
here and there in the room, her hat thrown down, her 
petticoat trailing over a chair, the dim scent of clover 
that hung on her pillow, making her bed like a field, all 
joined to bind him with her enchantment, to drug him 
with an ecstasy which had its sweet foundation in the 
commonplace. 

When they came back to Sunday Street the honey- 
moon did not end. Contrariwise, it seemed to wax fuller 
in the freedom of the old ways. Even sweeter than the 
sense of passionate holiday was the taking up of a com- 
mon life together, the daily sharing of food and work and 
rest, the doing of things he had done a hundred times 
before, but never like this. Thyrza’s little cottage had 
been hung with new curtains, and some unknown hand — 
which afterwards unexpectedly proved to be Nell’s — had 
filled it with flowers on the evening of their return. 
Bunches of primroses, violets and bluebells stuffed the 
vases in bedroom and parlour, and the soft fugitive scent 
of April banks mixed with the scent of lath and plaster 
which haunts old cottages, and the more spicy, powdery 
smells of the shop. 

The days were warm and drowsy, and the fields lay 
in a muffle of sunshine, their distances all blurred with 
heat. Round every farm the orchards rolled in pink- 
stained clouds of bloom, and the young wheat was green 
as a rainy sunset. The wind that brought the mutter 
of the guns, brought also the bleating of lambs from the 
pastures ; scents seemed to hang and brood on the air, 
or drift slowly from the woods — scents of standing water 
and budding thorn, of hazel leaves hot in the sun, and 


146 


THE FOUR ROADS 


soft mixed fragrances of gorse and fern, of cows, of 
baking earth, of currant bushes in cottage gardens. . . . 

Towards evening Tom and Thyrza usually closed the 
shop, and came out — either for a stroll up to Worge to 
see his family, or for some more adventurous excursion 
to Brownbread Street, or Furnacefield, or up to the 
North Road and the straggle of old Dallington. They 
had one or two quite long walks, for a new enterprise 
had kindled in them both, and for the first time there 
was mystery and allure in some shaky signpost at the 
throws, or a little lane creeping off secretly. One day 
they walked as far as Brightling, past the obelisk, through 
the shuttling dimness of Pipers Wood and up Twelve 
Oaks Hill by strange farms to the sudden clump of 
Brightling among the trees. They went into the church- 
yard where the yews spread shadows nearly as dark as 
their own blackness and strange white peacocks perched 
on the tombstones, with shrill, unnatural cries. There 
was also a huge cone-shaped object, built of damp stones 
and thickly grown with moss, and Thyrza unaccountably 
took fright at this, and the peacocks, and the shadows and 
the trees, and walked for most of the way home with 
her head under Tom’s coat. 

He did not often think of when this time should end, 
of the day that crept nearer and nearer to him over 
drowsing twilights and magical, green sunrises. He knew 
that a month hence all this delight would be a memory, 
that between him and the spurge-thickening fields of May 
would lie all the life of ugly adventure into which fate 
had pitched him — and Thyrza would come to him only 
on scraps of paper, in puffs of scent, in fugitive dreams, 
in a passing light in some other girl’s eyes. . . . But 
he was too simple and too happy to let thoughts of the 
future spoil the present, besides, his habit of disregarding 
the future now stood his friend. He would not see the 


THYRZA 


147 


clover in bloom, but saw it in the green — deep, rippling, 
gleaming, like the sea — he would miss the hay, but now 
he could see the buttercups under the moon, so yellow 
that they seemed to paint the sky and turn the moon to 
honey; Thyrza might in a month’s time be a memory, 
belong to phantasy, but now she was a woman solid and 
close, his woman, the maker of his home, the maker of 
himself anew. . . . Once his mother had borne him, and 
now it seemed as if this woman had borne him again, 
into a new experience, a new happiness, a new wonder — 
so perfect and complete that sometimes he almost felt as 
if it did not matter whether he held it for ever or for a 
day. 

ii 

On his last evening, he went up to Worge to say good- 
bye. He felt already as if he did not belong to the 
place. Harry’s drastic dealings with the tilth seemed 
to have taken the fields away from him — he no longer 
felt even a distant guardianship of those brown-ribbed 
acres which had been green when he worked on them. 
He felt, too, with a sense of estrangement, the dirt and 
litter of the house, the muddling business which at six 
o’clock had Ivy swilling out the scullery and Mrs. Beatup 
still struggling with the washing. Thyrza never did a 
stroke of housework after dinner, and yet her morning’s 
tasks were never hurried ; she never had Ivy’s flushed, 
red face and tousled hair, or Mrs. Beatup’s forehead 
shiny with sweat. 

His family were conscious of this — conscious that he 
now had a standard of comparison by which to measure 
their short-comings, and it made them sulkily suspicious 
in their attitude. He was already the alien — the bird 
that has left the nest, the puppy that has grown up and 
gone a-hunting on his own. But this sense of estrange- 


148 


THE FOUR ROADS 


ment only seemed to make his parting sadder, for he 
vaguely felt as if he had left them before he need, had 
already divided himself from them by an earlier good- 
bye, of which this was only the echo and the ghost. 

Mrs. Beatup enquired politely after Thyrza, and sent 
Ivy out to fetch in the others. Zacky climbed on Tom’s 
knee and asked him to send him home a German helmet, 
and Harry — whose heart was really very warm and lov- 
ing towards Tom — stood shyly behind his chair and could 
not speak a word. Mus’ Beatup gave Tom an account 
of the Battle of the Ancre, but failed to create the usual 
respectful impression. 

“ You see, faather, I was out there, and I know that 
it happened different. St. Quentin aun’t anywhere near 
the Rhine.” 

“ There’s more’n one St. Quentin, saum as there’s 
more’n one Mockbeggar, and more’n one Iden Green. 
How do you know as there’s no St. Quentin on the 
Rhine? You’ve never bin there, and you’ll never be 
there, nuther.” 

“ I reckon I’ll be there before I’m many months older.” 

“ You woan’t,” said Mus’ Beatup solemnly, “ it’s more 
likely as the Germans ull be crossing the River Cuckmere 
than as you’ll ever be crossing the River Rhine. Now, be 
quiet, Nell, and a-done do, fur I tell you it’s bin proved 
as we’ll never git to the River Rhine, so where’s the sense 
of going on wud the war, I’d like to know? ” 

“To prevent the Germans crossing the River Cuck- 
mere,” snapped Nell. 

“ Oh, doan’t go talking such tar’ble stuff,” moaned 
Mrs. Beatup. “If the Germans caum here I’d die of 
fits.” 

“ They woan’t come here,” said her husband, “ and 
we’ll never git there, so wot’s the sense of all this vrother, 
and giving up our lads and ploughing up our grass and 


THYRZA 


149 


going short of beer, all to end where we started? If 
this war had bin a-going to do us any good, it ud a-done 
it before now, surelye ; but it’s a lousy, tedious, lament- 
aable war, and the sooner we git shut of it the better.” 
“ Well, I must be going,” said Tom, standing up. He 
felt rather angry with his father, who, he thought, talked 
like a “ conscientious objector,” and was prostrating his 
mighty intellect to base uses. “ But maybe the beer has 
addled him — he’s had a regular souse this winter, by his 
looks.” 

He said good-bye to the family, refusing his mother’s 
invitation to stay to supper, as he had promised to take 
Thyrza for a walk that evening. However, he asked her 
to come with him to the door, as there was something he 
wanted to say to her alone. 

Mrs. Beatup felt pleased at this mark of confidence, but 
all Tom had to say as he kissed her on the threshold 
was — 

“ Mother, if anything wur to happen to me . . . out 
there, you know . . . you’d be good to Thyrza ? ” 

“ Oh, Tom — you aun’t expecting aught? ” 

“ I hope not, surelye — but how am I to know ? ” 

Her face wrinkled for crying. 

“ You didn’t use to spik lik that. ...” 

“ Come, mother — be sensible. There aun’t no sense 
spikking different, things being wot they are. I dudn’t 
use to be married . . . it’s being married that maakes a 
chap think of wot might happen.” 

“ You’d want me to taake Thyrza to live here? . . .” 
“ Reckon I wouldn’t. She’ll have her liddle bit of 
money, thank God, and maybe a pension besides. It 
aun’t money as I’m thinking of — it’s just — it’s just as 
she’ll break her heart.” 

“ And I’ll break mine, too, I reckon.” 

Tom groaned. 


150 


THE FOUR ROADS 


“ You’re a valiant help to me, mother. I ask you a 
thing to maake me a bit easier, and all you do is to 
vrother me the more.” 

“ Doan’t you go abusing your mother, Tom — wud 
your last breath. If Thyrza’s heart gits broke I’ll give 
her a bit of mine to mend it with — but no good ever 
caum of talking of such things.” 

“ I woan’t talk of them no more. Only, it had to be 
done — you see, mother, there might be a little ’un as 
well as Thyrza ...” 

“ Oh, Tom, a liddle baby fur you! ” 

He blushed — “ There aun’t no knowing, and I’d be 
easier if . . .” 

“ Oh, but I’d justabout love a liddle grandchild. You 
need never fret over that, Tom. I’d give my days to a 
liddle young un of yourn.” 

He kissed her, and they parted in love. 

12 

He hurried back to Thyrza, and they shut up the 
shop, and went out to the field by the willow pond. A 
green, still dusk lay over the fields and sky; no stars 
were out yet, but the chalky moon hung low over the 
woods of Burntkitchen. The distant guns were silent, 
only the bleating of lambs came from the Trulilows, and 
every now and then a burst of liquid, trilling, sucking 
melody from a blackbird among the willows. 

“ Hark to the bird,” said Thyrza. 

“ Maybe he’s got a nest full of liddle ’uns.” 

“ And a liddle wife as can’t sing — funny how hen-birds 
never sing, Tom.” 

“ Thyrza, I wish as I cud maake a home fur you, 
dear.” 


THYRZA 151 

“ Wotever maakes you think of that? The birds’ nest? 
Reckon I’ve got a dentical liddle home.” 

“ But it’s wot you’ve always lived in. I never built 
it for you.” 

“ Doan’t you go fretting Vver that. I’d be lonesome 
wudout the shop, Tom — I doan’t think as I’ll ever want 
to be wudout the shop. And we’ve bin so happy there 
together. It’s saum as if you’d built it fur me, since 
you’ve maade it wot it never was before.” 

He drew her close to him, sleek, soft, heavy, like a 
little cat, and leaned his cheek against her hair. 

“ Reckon I’ll always think of you in it. . . . I’ll see 
you setting up in the mornun wud your eyes all blinky 
and your hair streaming down — and I’ll see you putting 
on the kettle and dusting the shop, and maybe having 
a bit of talk over the counter wud a luckier chap than 
me. And all the day through I’ll see you, and in the 
swale you’ll be putting your head out for a blow of air, 
and there’ll be the lamp in the window behind you . . . 
and then you’ll lie asleep, and the room ull be all moony 
and grey, and your liddle hand ull lie out on the blanket 
— so, and your breath ull come lik the scent out of the 
grass . . . and when you turn your body it’ll be lik the 
grass moving in the wind — and I woan’t be there to see 
or hear or touch or smell you.” 

His arm tightened round her breast, and she leaned 
against him as if she would fuse her body into his, share 
its travels, hardships and dangers. The stars were creep- 
ing slowly into the sky, dim and rayless in the thick 
Spring night, which had put a purple haze into the zenith, 
and made the great moon glow like a copper pan. The 
fields were blooming with a soft yellow — the waters of 
the pond had a faint gleam on their stagnation, and the 
willows were like smoke with a fire in its heart, their 
boughs pouring down in misty grey towards the water, 


152 


THE FOUR ROADS 


with points and sparks of light here and there, as the 
radiance danced among their leaves. 

The swell of the field against the eastern constella- 
tions was broken by the gable of the shop, rising over 
the hedge and pointing to the sign of the Ram. Tom's 
England — the England he would carry in his heart — 
had widened to take in that little humped roof of moss- 
grown tiles. It held not only the willow pond and the 
woman beside it, but the home where together they had 
eaten the bread and drunk the cup of common things. 
It was not perhaps a very lofty conception of father- 
land — not even so high as Harry's conception of a coun- 
try saved by his plough. Tom's country was only a little 
field-corner that held his wife and his home, but as he 
sat there under the stars, he felt in his vague, humble 
way, that it was a country a man would choose to fight 
for, and for which perhaps he would not be unwilling 
to die. 


PART IV : IVY 




fTT^OWARDS June the country bounded by the Four 

1 Roads woke to a certain liveliness. A big camp 
had sprung up on the outskirts of Hailsham, on 
the ridge above Horse Eye, and the excitement spread 
to Brownbread Street, Sunday Street, Bodle Street, 
Pont’s Green, Rushlake Green, and other Streets and 
Greens — and cottage gardens were a-swing with lines of 
khaki shirts, “ soldiers 1 washing,” taken in with high de- 
light at an army's big spending. 

The girls of the neighbourhood began to take new 
sweethearts with startling quickness. They came, these 
strangers from the North, leaving their girls behind them, 
and the girls of the South had lost their men to camps 
in France and Midland towns. No doubt some kept faith 
with the absent, but the spirit of the days mistrusted 
space as it mistrusted time, and the wisdom of love took 
no more account of happiness a hundred miles away than 
of happiness a hundred months ahead. There were woo- 
ings and matings and partings, all played out in the few 
spare hours of a soldier’s day, in the few spare miles of 
his roaming, under the thundery thick sky of a Sussex 
summer, when heat and drench play their alternate havoc 
with the earth. 

In those days Ivy Beatup lifted up her head. She 
had had a dull time since Kadwell and Viner and Pix 
went out to France. Thyrza’s cousin had turned out 
miserable prey — he had actually proposed himself as her 
husband to her father and mother, bringing forward most 

153 


154 


THE FOUR ROADS 


satisfactory evidence of a more than satisfactory income, 
derived from Honey’s Suitall Stores in Seaford. Thus 
the strain between Ivy and her family was increased, and 
her presence at home became a burden of reproach. They 
could not see why she refused to bestow her splendid 
healthy womanhood on this poor creature, why she would 
rather scrub floors and gut fowls than sit with folded 
hands in his parlour — that she had “ taken him on ” 
merely to kill time, and that it wasn’t her fault if he 
chose to treat her seriously and make a fool of himself. 

“ You’ll die an old maid,” said her mother. “ You’ll 
go to the bad,” said her father, and Ivy, who had no 
intention of doing either, felt angry and sore, and longed 
to justify herself by a new love-affair more gloriously 
conducted. 

When the soldiers came to Hailsham, she saw her 
chance, and resolved to make the most of it. She 
persuaded Harry to take her into the town on market- 
day, and also found that she preferred the “ pictures ” 
there to those at Senlac. Polly Sinden refused to abet 
her — Bill Putland had given her distinct encouragement 
on his last leave, and Polly decided that in future dis- 
creet behaviour would become her best. So she refused 
to prowl of an evening with Ivy, either in Hailsham or 
Senlac, and Ivy — since no girl prowls alone — had to take 
up with Jen Hollowbone of the Foul Mile, the same whom 
Bob Kadwell had jilted, but who, soothed by time and a 
new sweetheart, had generously forgiven her rival, espe- 
cially as Bob had once again transferred his affections, 
and was now no more Ivy’s than Jen’s. 

The two girls went into Hailsham on market-days, and 
strolled that way of evenings, winning the South Road 
by Stilliands Tower and Puddledock, through the little 
lanes and farm-tracks that were now all thick with June 
grass, and smelled of hayseed and fennel. With grass 




IVY 


155 


and goosefoot sticking to their skirts, and their hair 
spattered with the fallen blossoms of elderflower, they 
would come out on the South Road, where the dust swept 
through the twilight before the wind. Warm and flushed, 
with laughing eyes, and arms entwined, and slow proud 
movements of their bodies, the girls would stroll past the 
camp gates, leaning clumsily together and giggling. The 
men would come pouring out after the day’s routine, seek- 
ing what diversion they could find in lane or market- 
town. It was in this way that Ivy met Corporal Seagrim 
of the Northumberland Fusiliers. 

He was a tall, dark giant, well past thirty, with a be- 
coming grizzle in his hair, over the temples. His face 
was brown as a cob-nut, and his speech so rough and 
uncouth in the northern way that at first Ivy could 
hardly understand him. They met in the market-place. 
He had a companion who paired with Jen — an under- 
sized little miner, with a pale face and red lips, but good 
enough for Jen, since she already had a boy in France. 
Of course Ivy had several boys — but they were no more 
than good comrades, the interchangers of cheery post- 
cards on service and cheery kisses on leave. If she had 
had a boy like Jen’s, she would have been more faithful 
to him than Jen was, but she was free to do as she liked 
with Seagrim — free when they met in the market-place, 
that is to say, for by the time they said good-bye at Four 
Wents under the stars, she was free no longer. 

They had gone to the “ pictures,” but soon the moving 
screen had become a dazzle to Ivy, the red darkness an 
enchantment, the tinkling music an intoxication. Sea- 
grim’s huge brown hand lay heavily on hers, and her 
limbs shook as she leaned against his shoulder, almost in 
silence, since they found it hard to understand each 
other’s speech. The man thrilled and confused her as no 
other had done — whether it was his riper age, or his 


156 


THE FOUR ROADS 


almost perfect physical beauty, or some strange animal 
force that thrilled his silence and slow clumsy move- 
ments, she did not seek to tell. Self-knowledge was 
beyond her — all she knew was that she could never give 
him the careless chum-like affection she had given her 
boys, that between them there never would be those light 
hearty kisses which she had so often taken and bestowed. 
She felt herself languid, troubled, full of a dim glamour 
that brought both delight and pain. The music, the red 
glow all seemed part of her sensation, though before she 
used scarcely to notice them, except to hail a popular tune 
or an opportunity for caresses. 

When the show ended, the soldiers offered to walk 
with the girls as far as Four Wents, where the Puddle- 
dock lane joins the South Road. Jen and the miner 
walked on ahead, she holding stiffly by his arm, in a 
manner suitable to one demi-affianced elsewhere. Ivy 
and Seagrim followed. They did not speak ; his arm 
was about her, and every now and then he would stop 
and pull her to him, dragging her up against him in 
silent passion, taking from her lips kiss after kiss. The 
aching passionate night looked down on them from the 
sky where the great stars jigged like flames, was close 
to them in the hedges where the scented night-wind flut- 
tered, and the dim froth of chervil and bennet swam 
against the hazels. For the first time Ivy seemed to feel 
a hushed yet powerful life in the country which till then 
she had scarcely heeded more than the music and red 
lamps of the show. Now the scents that puffed out of 
the grass made her senses swim, the soft sough of the 
wind over the fields, the distant cry of an owl in Tillighe 
Wood, made her heart ache with a longing that was half 
its own consummation, made her lean in a drowse of 
ecstasy and languor against Seagrim’s beating heart, as 
he held her in the crook of his arm, close to his side. 


IVY 


157 


At the Wents the parting came, with a loud ring of 
laughter from Jen, and a “ pleased to ha’ met yo’ ” 
from the miner. But Ivy clung to her man, her eyes 
blurred with tears, her throat husky and parched with 
love as she murmured against his thick brown neck — 

“ I’ll be seeing you agaun ? . . . ” 

“ Aye, and yo’ will, li’l lass, li’l loove ”... he swore, 
and straightway made tryst. 

When he was gone the night still seemed full of him 
— his strength and his beauty and his wonder. 

2 

Ivy was in love. The glamour had transmuted her 
country stuff as surely as it transmutes more delicate 
substance. The spring rain falls on the thick-stalked 
hogweed as on the spurred columbine, and the divine 
poetry of Love had given to her, as to a more tender 
nature, its unfailing gift of a new heaven and a new 
earth. 

Her whole being seemed gathered up into Seagrim, 
into a strange happiness which had its roots in pain. 
For the first time pain and happiness were united in 
one emotion; when she was away from him, pain was 
the strong partner, when with him, then happiness pre- 
vailed — and yet not always, for sometimes in his presence 
her heart swooned within her, and her face would grow 
pale under his kisses and a moan stifle in her throat, and 
also, sometimes, when he was away, a strange ecstasy 
would seize her, and all her world would shine, and her 
common things of slops and guts and mire become beau- 
tiful, and the very thought of his being dazzle all the 
earth. . . . 

She never told him of this, indeed she herself scarcely 
realised it. She felt in her thoughts a soft confusion, 


158 


THE FOUR ROADS 


a happy bewilderment, a sweet ache, and everything was 
changed and everyone spoke with a new voice — the very 
kitchen boards were not the same since she met Seagrim, 
and her family had queer new powers of delighting and 
grieving her. “ I must be in love,” she said to herself, 
and straightway bought her man a pound of the best 
tobacco at the Shop. 

She was very good to him. Her hearty, generous 
nature found relief in spending itself upon him. She 
seldom came to the meeting-place without some present 
of tobacco or food — she did him a dozen little services, 
mended his clothes, marked his handkerchiefs, polished 
his buttons and his boots. Strangely spiritual as the 
depths of her love might be, its expression was entirely 
practical and animal. To serve him and caress him was 
her only way of revealing those dim marvels that swam 
at the back of her mind. 

The man himself was bewitched. Her generosity 
touched him, and it would be a strange fellow indeed 
who would not love to hold her to him, sweet and 
tumbled like an overblown flower, and take the softness 
of her parted lips and sturdy neck. Ivy was like the 
month in which he wooed her — July, thick, drowsy, 
blooming, ripe, lacking the subtlety of spring and the dig- 
nity of autumn, but more satisfying to the common man 
who prefers enjoyment to promise or memory. 

They met most evenings, he walking eastward, she 
westward, to Four Wents; there, where the tall stile 
stands between two shocks of fennel, thev would lean 
together in the first charm of tryst, the dusk thicken- 
ing round them, hazing road and fields and barns and 
bushes, their own faces swimming up out of it to each 
other's eyes, like reflections in a pond — hers round and 
flushed under her tousled hair, like a poppy in a barley- 
field, his brown and predatory with its hawk-like nose and 


IVY 


159 


piercing eye under the grizzled curls. Then the dusk 
would smudge them into each other and they would 
become one in the swale. . . . 

He led her up and down the little rutted lanes, under 
a violet sky where the stars were red and the moon was 
a golden horn. The thick fanning of the July air brought 
scents of hayseed and flowering bean, the miasmic per- 
fume of meadowsweet, the nutty smell of ripening corn, 
and the drugged sweetness of hopfields. All round them 
would hang the great tender silence of night, the pas- 
sionate stillness of the earth under the moon, and their 
poor broken words only seemed a part of that silence. 
. . . “ My loove, my li’l lass.” . . . “ I love you unac- 
countable, Willie.” . . . “ Coom closer, my dear.” . . . 
The wind rustled over the orchards of Soul Street, and 
the horns of the moon were red, and the sky thick and 
dark as a grape, when they came back to the tall stile at 
the throws, and parted there with caresses which love 
made groping and vows which love choked to whispers. 

On Sundays they met more ceremonially, pacing up and 
down the road at Sunday Street, from the shop to the 
Rifle Volunteer — which was the parade-ground of those 
girls of the parish who had sweethearts. Here Jen Hol- 
lowbone showed her Ted and Polly Sinden her Bill, and 
Ivy Beatup showed her Willie, walking proudly on his 
arm, smiling with all her teeth at the girls whose sweet- 
hearts were away and at the girls who had no sweet- 
hearts at all. 

She even brought him to Worge once or twice, but 
her family did not like him. This was partly because 
they were still the champions of the rejected Ern Honey, 
and partly because they resented his gruff manner, and 
harsh, rumbling speech. He did not shine in company 
— he was for ever boasting the superiority of Northum- 
berland ways over those of Sussex, and even told Mus’ 


160 


THE FOUR ROADS 


Beatup that he “ spake like a fule " on American Inter- 
vention. He horrified Nell by drinking out of his saucer 
— a depth below any of the family's most degrading col- 
lapses — and offended Harry and Zacky by taking no 
notice of them or interest in the farm. Indeed the only 
being at Worge he seemed to care about — not excepting 
Ivy, whom he almost ignored on these occasions — was 
Nimrod, the old retriever; to him alone he would smile 
and be friendly, hugging the old black head against his 
tunic, and patting and slapping Nim’s sides till he became 
demoralised by this unaccustomed fondling and frisked 
about with muddy paws — which was all put down to Sea- 
grim for unrighteousness in his account with Mrs. 
Beatup. 

“Wot d’you want wud un, Ivy?" she asked once — 
“ a gurt dark tedious chap lik that, wud never a good 
word for a soul — not even yourself, he doan’t sim to 
have — and a furriner too." 

“ He aun’t a furriner." 

“ He aun’t from these parts, like some I cud naum. 
You’re a fool if you say no to a valiant chap lik Ernie 
Honey and taake up wud a black unfriendly feller as 
no one here knows naun about." 

“ Well, he doan’t have to have his inside tied up wud 
a truss lik a parcel of hay, caase it falls out." 

“ You hoald your rude tongue. Wot right have you 
to know aught of Ern Honey’s inside? And better a 
inside lik a parcel of hay than a heart lik a barnyard 
stone. He’s a hard-hearted man, your sojer — cares for 
naun saave a pore heathen dog wot he brings spannelling 
into the kitchen." 

“ He cares for me." 

“It doan’t sim lik it wud his ‘Eh, lass? — eh, lass?’ 
whensumdever you spik. Reckon you maake yourself 
cheap as rotten straw when you git so stuck on him." 


IVY 161 

“ Who said I wur stuck on him ? — he aun’t the fust 
I’ve kept company with.” 

“ No, he aun’t. You’re parish talk wud your goings 
on. You’ll die an oald maid in the wark’us, and bring 
us to shaum — and Harry ull bring us to auction, and Tom 
ull be killed by a German, and bring us to death in sor- 
row. All my children have turned agaunst me now I’m 
old,” and Mrs. Beatup began to cry into her apron. 

Ivy’s big arms were round her at once. . . . 

3 

Relations between Ivy and Nell had always been a 
little uneasy. Ivy was tolerant and good-humoured, but 
could not always hide the contempt which she felt for 
Nell’s refinements, while Nell, though she did not despise 
Ivy, hated her coarseness — particularly since she could 
never see it through her own eyes alone, but through 
others to which it must appear even grosser than to 
herself. 

One evening Nell came in from school, and as she 
took off her hat before the bit of glass on the kitchen 
wall, could see the reflection of Ivy munching her tea, 
which she had started late, after a day’s washing. Her 
sleeves were still rolled up, showing her strong arms, 
white as milk to the elbow, then brown as a rye-bread 
crust. Her meadow-green dress was unbuttoned, as if 
to give her big breast play, and her neck was thick and 
white, its modelling shown by bluish shadows. “ She’s a 
whacker!” thought Nell angrily to herself, then sud- 
denly turned round and said — 

“ Jerry Sumption’s here.” 

“ Lork ! ” said Ivy, biting off a crust. 

“ I met him,” continued Nell, “ and he knows you’re 
going with Seagrim.” 


162 


THE FOUR ROADS 


“ Well, wot if he does? ” 

“ It might be awkward for you. He seemed very much 
upset about it.” 

“ Wot fur dud you go and tell un? ” 

Nell sniffed. 

“ I didn't tell him. But your love-making isn’t exactly 
private.” 

“ No need fur it to be.” 

“ I don’t know — it might be better for you as well as 
for us if the whole parish didn’t know so much about 
your affairs.” 

“ And I reckon you think as no one knows about 
yourn ? ” 

, Nell flushed — 

“ Leave my affairs alone. I’ve none for you to meddle 
with.” 

“ Oh, no — you aun’t sweet on Parson — not you, and 
nobody knows you go after un ! ” 

“ Adone-do wud your vulgar talk,” cried Nell furi- 
ously, forgetting in her anger to clip and trim her blurry 
Sussex speech. “ I’ve warned you about young Sump- 
tion, and it aun’t my fault if you have trouble.” 

“ There woan’t be no trouble. I’ve naun to do wud 
Jerry nor he wud me — I got shut of him a year agone.” 

All the same, she was not so easy as her words made 
out. It was evil luck which had brought Jerry Sump- 
tion back at just this time. He was bound to be a pest 
anyhow, though perhaps if his jealousy had not been 
roused he might have had enough sense to keep away. 
Now he would most likely come and make a scene. 
Even though she would not be his girl, he could never 
bear to see her another man’s ; he might even try to 
make mischief between her and Seagrim — be hemmed 
to the gipsy ! At all events he would be sure to come 
and kick up trouble. 



IVY 


163 


She was partly right. Jerry came, but he did not 
make a scene. He turned up the next morning, looking 
strangely dapper and subdued. Ivy interviewed him 
in the outer kitchen, where she was blackleading the 


that he had hardly ever seen his charmer in a presentable 
state — she was always either scrubbing the floor, or 
cooking the dinner, or washing the clothes, or cleaning 
the hearth. To-day there was a big smudge of black 
across her cheek, and her hair was tumbling over ears 
and forehead, from which she occasionally swept it back 
with a smutty hand. 

Contrariwise, Jerry was neat and dressed out as she 
had never seen him. His puttees were carefully wound, 
his buttons were polished, his tunic was brushed, his 
hair was sleek with water. He stood looking at her in 
his furtive gipsy way, which somehow suggested a cast 
in his fine eyes which were perfect enough. 


She had decided that he should be the first to speak, 
and had let the silence drag on for two full minutes. 

“ Well ? ” 

“ Tve come — Tve come to ask you to forgive me” 

“ I’ll forgive you sure enough, Jerry Sumption — but 
I aun't going wud you no more, if that's wot you mean." 
“ You've taken up with another fellow." 

“ That's no concern of yourn," 

“ But tell me if it’s truth or lie? " 

“ It's truth." 


“ And you love him? " 

“ Maybe I do." 

Jerry's face went the colour of cheese. 

“ Then you’ll never come with me again, I reckon." 

“ I justabout woan’t " — Ivy sat up on her heels and 
looked straight into his dodging eyes — “ I’ll forgive you 


fireplace. It spoke much for the sincerity of his passion 


Ivy 





164 


THE FOUR ROADS 


all, but HI give you naun — d’you maake that out? I 
cud never have loved you, and you’ve shown me plain as 
mud as you aun’t the kind of chap a girl can go with 
for fun. If you’re wise you’ll kip awaay — we can’t be 
friends. So you go and find some other girl as ull do 
better fur you than I shud ever.” 

“ If there hadn’t been this chap ” 

“ It ud have bin the saum. I’m not your sort, my 
lad, for all you think.” 

“ Will this other chap marry you? ” 

“ I’ll tell naun about un. He’s no consarn of yourn, 
as I’ve said a dunnamany times.” 

“ Ivy, when I was in France, I thought to myself — 
‘ Maybe if I’m sober and keep straight, she’ll have me 
back.’ ” 

“ I’m middling glad you thought it, Jerry, fur it wur 
a good thought. You’ll lose naun by kipping straight 
and sober, so you go on wud it, my lad.” 

“ I don’t care, if I can’t get you.” 

“ That’s unsensible talk. I’m not the only girl that’s 
going — thur’s many better.” 

“ Reckon there is — reckon I’ll get one for every day 
of the week. No need to tell me girls are cheap — I 
only thought I’d like one that wasn’t, for a change.” 

“ Doan’t you talk so bitter.” 

“ I talk as I feel. You’ve settled with this chap, Ivy? ” 
“ I’ve told you a dunnamany times. Wot maakes you 
so thick? ” 

He did not answer, but turned away, and walked out 
of the room with a stealthy, humble step, like a beaten 
dog. Ivy’s heart smote her — she could not let him go 
without a kind word. 

“Jerry!” she called after him. But he did not turn 
back — and then, unaccountably, she felt frightened. 


IVY 

4 


165 


It was odd that Jerry’s cowed retreat should have 
caused her more fear than his swaggering aggression — 
nevertheless, all that day she could not get rid of her un- 
easiness, and with the arbitrariness of superstition linked 
the evening’s catastrophe with the earlier foreboding. 

She had run dawn to the Shop, to buy some washing 
soda, and have a chat with Thyrza, and on her return 
was met in the passage by Nell, who looked at her hard 
and said — 

“ There’s someone come to see you — a Mrs. Seagrim.” 
Ivy’s heart jumped. She wished that there had not 
been quite such a wind to blow about her hair, and that 
she had had time to mend the hole in her skirt that morn- 
ing. If Willie’s mother had come to inspect his choice 
. . . howsumdever, he had often spoken of his mother 
as a kind soul. 

V 

But the woman in the kitchen with Mrs. Beatup was 
only a few years older than Ivy — a tall, slim creature, 
with reddish hair, and a beautiful pale face. She was 
dressed like a lady, too, in a neat coat and skirt, with 
gloves and cloth-topped boots. Ivy felt the blood drain 
from her heart, and yet she had anticipated Mrs. Beatup 
with no definite thought when the latter said — 

“ Ivy, this is Corporal Seagrim’s wife.” 

“ Pleased to meet you,” Ivy heard someone say, and 
it must have been herself, for the next moment she was 
shaking hands with Mrs. Seagrim. 

There was a moment’s pause, during which the two 
women stared at Ivy, then the corporal’s wife remarked, 
with a North-country accent that came startlingly from 
her elegance, that it was gey dirty weather. 

“ Thicking up fur thunder, I reckon,” said Mrs. 
Beatup. 


166 


THE FOUR ROADS 


“Yo get it gey thick and saft down here, A’m think- 

* 99 

mg. 

“ Unaccountable," said Mrs. Beatup, and squinted 
nervously at Ivy. 

Ivy's wits had at first been blown to the four winds, 
and she sat during this conversation with her mouth 
open, but gradually resolve began to form in her sickened 
heart; she felt her brain and body stiffen — she would 
fight. . . . 

“ A chose a bad week t’coom Sooth," started Mrs. 
Seagrim, “ but 'twas all the choice A had — A hae t'roon 
my man's business now he's sojering. Yo' mither tells 
me, Miss Beatup, as nane here knaws he's marrit. But 
marrit he is, and has twa bonny bairns." 

“ I know," said Ivy — “ he toald me." 

“ He toald you!" broke in Mrs. Beatup. “ You said 
naun to me about it." 

“ I disremember. He wur only here the twice." 

Mrs. Seagrim looked at her curiously. 

“ Weel, maist folk didn't sim t'knaw. A took a room 
in Hailsham toon, and the gude woman said as how 
t'Corporal had alius passed for a bachelor man, and 
was coorting a lass up t'next village." 

“ Maybe she thinks he wur a-courting me," snapped 
Ivy, “ but he dud naun of the like. He toald me he 
was married the fust day I set eyes on un." 

“ Weel, that was on’y reet. So many of those marrit 
sojer chaps go and deceive puir lasses. A hear there’s 
been a mort of trouble and wickedness done that 
way." 

“ Maybe," said Ivy — “ women are gurt owls, most of 
them." 

“ And," continued Mrs. Seagrim, “ it's only reet and 
kind of the wives of such men to go and tell any poor 
body as is like to be deceived by them." 


IVY 167 

% 

“ That’s true enough. But your trouble’s thrown away 
on me. I knew all about un from the fust.” 

“ Weel, A’ve done ma duty ony way,” and Mrs. Sea- 
grim rose, extending a gloved hand, “ and A’m reet glad 
as Seagrim was straight with yo’, when he seems to have 
passed as single with everyone else.” 

“ It must be a tar’ble trial to have a man lik that,” 
said Ivy. “ He’ll cost you a dunnamany shilluns and 
pounds if you’ve got to go trapesing after him every- 
wheres, to tell folk he’s wed.” 

Mrs. Seagrim smiled. 

When Ivy had shown her out of the front-door, she 
would have liked to escape to her bedroom, but Mrs. 
Beatup filled the passage. 

“ Ivy — you might have toald me. I maade sure as 
he’d deceived you.” 

“ And I tell you he dudn’t. He toald me he wur wed, 
and about his childer, and that dress-up hop-pole of a 
wife of his’n.” 

“ And you went walking out wud a married man, for 
all the Street to see ! ” 

“ Why not ? There wur no harm done.” 

“ No harm ! I tell you it wurn’t simly.” 

“ He’d no friends in these parts, and a man liks a 
woman he can talk to.” 

“ He’d got his wife, surelye.” 

“ Not hereabouts. He wur middling sick wud lone- 
someness.” 

Mrs. Beatup sniffed. 

“ Well, you can justabout git shut of him now. Your 
faather and me woan’t have you walking out wud a 
married man. So maake up your mind to that.” 

Ivy muttered something surly and thick — the tears 
were already in her throat, and pushing past her mother, 
she ran upstairs. 



168 


THE FOUR ROADS 


Once alone, her feelings overcame her, and she threw 
herself upon the bed, sobbing with grief and rage. Sea- 
grim had deceived her, had meant to deceive her — that 
was quite plain. Though he had never definitely spoken 
of marriage, he had quite definitely posed to her as a 
single man. She gathered from Mrs. Seagrim that he 
made a habit of these escapades. Lord ! what a fool 
she had been — and yet, why should she have doubted 
him whom she loved so utterly? 

Her hair, matted into her eyes, was soaked with tears, 
as she rolled her head to and fro on the pillow, thinking 
of the man she had loved, loved still, and yet hated 
and despised. He had played her false — she was un- 
able to get over this fact, as a more sophisticated nature 
might have done. Her confidence, her devotion, her pas- 
sion, he had paid with treachery and lies. She had not 
fought her battle with Mrs. Seagrim in his defence — at 
least not principally — she had fought it to save herself 
from humiliation in the eyes of this woman, of her 
mother, and of Sunday Street. 

Yet she cried to him out of the deep — “ Oh, Willie, 
Willie . . She thought of him in his strength and 
grizzled beauty — she remembered particularly his neck 
and his hands. “ Oh, Willie, Willie . . She had 
loved him as she had loved no other man. No other 
man had filled the day and the night and brought the 
stars to earth for her and made earth a shining heaven. 
Her love was crude and physical, but it is one of the 
paradoxes of love that the greater its materialism the 
greater its spiritual power, that passion can open a mystic 
paradise to which romance and affection have not the 
key. Ivy had seen the heavens open to this clumsy soldier 
of hers — to this man who had tricked her, bubbled her, 
brought her to shame. 

She wondered if he knew of his wife's visit — perhaps 


IVY 


169 


lie was with her now. Did he love her? . . . and those 
two youngsters up in the North — a moan dragged from 
her lips. His wife was dressed like a lady, but she talked 
queer, though maybe they all talked like that up North. 
Had she believed Ivy when she said she had always 
known Seagrim was a married man? Had her mother 
believed her? Would Sunday Street believe her? 

She sat up on the bed, and pushed the damp hair 
back from her eyes. She would face them out, anyhow. 
No one should point at her in scorn — or at Seagrim, 
either, even though she could never trust him or love 
him again. She would give the lie to all who mocked 
or pitied. No one should pry into her aching heart. 
Ivy Beatup wasn’t the one to be poor-deared or serve- 
her-righted. She crossed the room, and plunged her face 
into the basin, slopping her tear-stained cheeks with cold 
water. Then she brushed back and twisted up her hair, 
smoother her gown, and went downstairs with no traces 
of her grief save an unnatural tidiness. 

5 

Ivy held her bold front for the rest of that week. Her 
secret portion of sorrow and craving she kept hid. Her 
floors were scrubbed and her pans scoured no worse for 
lack of that glory which makes like the silver wings of 
a dove those that have lien among the pots. . . . She 
still had strength to cling to the empty days, to serve 
through the meaningless routine that had once been a 
joyous rite. 

Everyone had heard about Seagrim now, and had also 
heard that Ivy Beatup had not been deceived, but had 
known about his wife from the first. Some believed her, 
accounting for her silence by the fact that her family 
would have interfered had they known she was walking 


170 


THE FOUR ROADS 


out with a married man. These for the most part called 
Ivy Beatup a bad lot, though her sister-in-law Thyrza 
stood up for her, declaring Ivy’s friendship with the 
Corporal could only have been innocent and respectable — 
but of course Thyrza was now allied with the Beatups, 
and would be anxious for their good name. A large pro- 
portion of the street, however, did not believe Ivy’s ver- 
sion of the story — they would have her tricked, deluded — 
betrayed, they hinted — and found an even greater delight 
in pity than in blame. 

All joined in wondering what she would do the follow- 
ing Sunday. She would not have the face to parade 
the man as usual. Perhaps Mrs. Seagrim was still at 
Hailsham — perhaps, even if she was not, the Corporal 
would not dare show his face after what had happened 
or, if he did, surely the girl would not be so brazen as 
to trot him out now that she knew all the parish knew 
she was a bad lot — or a poor victim. 

However, when Sunday came, Ivy appeared in her best 
blue dress, and on Seagrim’s arm, as if nothing had hap,- 
pened. Her eyes were perhaps a little over-bright with 
defiance, her cheeks a little over-red for even such a full- 
blown peony as her face, but her manner was assured, if 
not very dignified, and her grins as many-toothed as on 
less doubtful occasions. 

To tell the truth, Ivy had not meant to offer such a 
public challenge to a local opinion. She had made up 
her mind that Seagrim would not appear at all, or in a 
very subdued condition. However, on Friday she had 
a letter of the usual loving kind, excusing his absence 
during the week on the score of extra duty and asking 
her to meet him at Worge gate next Sunday morning — 
“ with her boy’s fondest love ” and a row of kisses. 

Ivy’s teeth bit deep into her lip as she read this letter. 
He was still deceiving her, though now, thank the Lord, 


IVY 


171 


he was also deceived himself. He did not know his wife 
had been to see her, and doubtless Mrs. Seagrim had now 
gone back to “ the business ” — a corn-chandler’s in Aln- 
wick. Ivy wondered why she had kept her own counsel, 
but no doubt the k ‘ dressed-up hop-pole ” knew best how 
to deal with her man. If she betrayed her plot it might 
have led to friction between an affectionate husband and 
wife, and she probably felt that she had “ settled ” Ivy. 

The girl’s blood ran thick with humiliation — both the 
man and the woman had shamed her. Doubtless they 
loved each other well, though he, with a man’s greediness, 
had wanted another woman in her absence. He could 
never have meant to marry Ivy — his intentions must 
always have been vague or dishonourable. As for the 
wife, having spent some of the cash left over from her 
clothes, in running down South to look after him, she 
had no doubt been satisfied with warning Ivy and coaxing 
her husband, and had then gone back to her flourishing 
shop. True that this letter hardly pointed to the success 
of her tactics, but Ivy knew too much about men to attach 
great importance to it — Seagrim was just the sort of man 
who would have a girl wherever he went, and yet always 
keep the first place in his heart for the woman who had 
also his name. She, Ivy, was probably only a secondary 
attachment to fill the place of the other, and no doubt in 
that other’s absence, he would make every effort to keep 
her — but she was a stop-gap, an interlude, to him who 
had been her all, and filled the spare moments of one who 
had filled her life. 

She forced herself to bite down on this bitter truth, 
and swallowed it — and it gave her strength for the 
course she meant to take. 

She found Seagrim leaning against Worge gate, suck- 
ing the knob of his swagger stick, and gazing at her with 
shining long-lashed eyes of grey. For a moment the sight 


172 


THE FOUR ROADS 


of him there, his greeting, the husky tones love put into 
his voice, his sunburnt, hawk-like strength, all combined 
to make her falter. But she was made of too solid stuff 
to forget his callous deception of her, which he still main- 
tained, drawing her arm through his with a few glib lies 
about extra duty and the sergeant. Contempt for him 
stabbed her heart and eyes, and for a few moments she 
could neither look at him nor speak. 

They went to their usual parade ground, marching 
to and fro between the Bethel and the Shop, and Ivy’s 
confidence revived with her defiance of public opinion. 
“ They’ll see I doan’t care naun fur wot they think,” 
she said to herself, and met boldly the outraged eyes 
of Bourners and Sindens and Putlands. It was a hot 
day, and there was a smell of dust in the air, which 
felt heavy and thick. The sun was dripping on Sunday 
Street, making the red roofs swim and dazzle in a yellow 
haze ; the leaves of the big oaks by the forge drooped 
with dust, and the Bethel’s stare was hot and angry, as 
if its lidless eyes ached in the glow. 

Ivy decided that she might now end her ordeal of the 
burning ploughshare. She had strutted up and down 
a dozen times in front of her neighbours, defying their 
gossip, their blame and their pity. “ I done it — now I 
can git shut of un,” and her gaze of mixed pain and 
contempt wandered up to his brown face as he walked 
beside her, talking unheard in his booming Northumber- 
land voice. 

“ It’s middling hot in the Street — let’s git into the 
spinney.” 

He kindled at once — it would be good to sit with her 
on trampled hazel leaves, to lie with their faces close 
and the green spurge waving round their heads in a 
filter of sunlight. Usually these suggestions came from 
him, by the rules of courting, but he loved her for the 


IVY 


173 


boldness which could break all rule even as it lacked 
all craft. He slid his hand along her arm, and pressed 
it, with joy at the quiver she gave. 

The Twelve Pound spinney stood about thirty yards 
back from the Street, behind the Bethel, and was reached 
by a little path and a stile opposite the Horselunges. As 
they pased the inn, Ivy saw Mrs. Breathing opening the 
door and the shutters for the Sunday's short traffic, and 
at the same time saw ahead of her a dusty khaki figure 
ambling towards the sign with the particular padding 
unsoldierly tread of Jerry Sumption. 

“ He's on the drink, now’s he knows as he can't git 
me," she thought — “ the bad gipsy ! " Then a feeling 
of regret and hopelessness came over her. Here were 
two men whose love she had muddled — one who had 
hurt her and one whom she had hurt. Was love all 
hurting and sorrow? For the first time the careless 
game of a girl’s years became almost a sinister thing. 
Her hand dragged at Seagrim's arm, as if unconsciously 
and despite herself her body appealed to the man her 
soul despised . . . then she lifted her eyes, and looked 
into Jerry's as he passed, trotting by with hanging head 
and queer look, like a mad dog . . . yes, love was a 
tar'ble game. 

The black, still shadows of Twelve Pound Wood 
swallowed her and Seagrim out of the glare. The clop 
of hoofs and bowl of wheels on the Street came as from 
a great way off, and the hum of poised and darting in- 
sects, thick among the foxgloves, seemed to shut them 
into a little teeming world of buzz and pollen-dust and 
sun-trickled green. Seagrim stood still, and his arm slid 
from the crook of Ivy's across her back, drawing her 
close. But with a sudden twisting movement she set her- 
self free, standing before him in the path, with the tall 
foxgloves round her, flushed and freckled like her face, 


174 THE FOUR ROADS 

and behind her the pale cloud of the bennet heads like 
melting smoke. 

“ Kip clear of me, Willie Seagrim — I’ll have no truck 
wud you. I’ve met your wife.” 

The man, slow of speech, gaped at her without a 
word. 

“Yes. She caum round to our plaace three days 
agone, and shamed me before my mother. But I said 
I knew as you wur married, and to-day I walked out 
wud you to show the foalkses here I aun’t bin fooled. 
Now I’ve shown ’em, you can go. I’m shut of you.” 

“ Ivy — yo’re telling me that my Bess ” 

“ Yes — your Bess, wud gloves and buttoned boots 

and ” She checked herself. “Yes, she caum, and 

tried to put me to shaum. But I druv her off, surelye r , 
and now I’m shut of you, fur a hemmed chap wot fooled 
me wud a lie.” 

“ But A no harmed yo’ ” 

“ Harmed me ! ” — she gasped. 

“ Dom that Bess for a meddlesome fule. Oh, she’s 
gey canny, that Bess. But Ivy, liT Ivy, yo’ll no cast 
me off for that? ” 

“Why shud I kip you? — you’ve bin a-fooling me. 
You maade as you wur a free man, and all the while 
you wur married. I — I loved you.” 

“ And yo’ kin lo’ me still ...” He sought to take 
her, but she pushed him off. 

“ Reckon I can’t. Reckon as I’ll never disremember 
all the lies you’ve said. And you spuk of loving me . . . 
knowing all the whiles . . . Oh, you sought to undo me ! 
Reckon I’m jest a gurt trusting owl, but it wur middling 
cruel of you to trick me so.” 

“ Ivy — by God A sweer ” 

“ Be hemmed to your silly swears. I’ll never believe 
you more.” 


IVY 175 

“ But yo’ll no cast me off fur a wumman up 
North . . 

“ I don’t care where she be. She’s yourn — and you 
hid her from me. If you’d toald me straight, maybe I 
— but ...” 

“ Yo’ na speered of me. Why should A have spoken? ” 
“ You did spik — you spuk as a free man.” 

“ A was a fule — yo’ made me mad for you.” 

His eye was darkening, and the corners of his mouth 
had an angry twist. 

“You toald me as extra duty kept you away last 
week,” continued Ivy, “ and it wurn’t — it wur your wife. 
Reckon you love her and I’m only a girl fur your spare 
days. You’d kip me on fur that.” 

“ A’ll keep yo’ on for naething. If yo’ don’t like me, 
yo’ can go.” 

“ It’s you who can go. I’m shut of you from this day 
forrard. You git back to Hailsham this wunst and never 
come here shaming me more.” 

“ Yo’ll be shamed if I go. Better for yo’ if I stay.” 
“If you stay you’ll shaum me furder, fur you’ll shaum 
me wud my own heart. Git you gone, Willie Seagrim, 
and find a bigger fool than me.” 

He shrugged his shoulders, and her heart sickened with 
jealousy, knowing that her loss to him could not be so 
serious as his to her, since he had his beautiful pale Bess, 
with her red hair and stooping back, whom all the time 
he had loved more than he loved Ivy, because she was 
his children’s mother and had rights which he respected. 
He would soon forget Ivy; perhaps he would find an- 
other girl to solace his spare hours, but anyhow he would 
forget her. The thought almost made her hold him back, 
cling to him, and seek to wrest him from the other 
woman with her self-confident possession. But she was 
withheld by her sense of outrage, and by a queer pride 


176 


THE FOUR ROADS 


she had always had in herself, a rustic straightness which 
had gone with her through all her many amours. To 
surrender now could only mean disgrace, since she felt 
that in some odd way it meant surrender to Bess as well 
as to Bess’s master. If she became Seagrim’s woman, 
which she must be now, or nothing, Bess would somehow 
triumph, and triumph more utterly than if she threw him 
off with scorn. Besides, he had fooled her and lied to 
her; he was not worth having — let him go, though her 
heart bled, and her bowels ached, as she watched him 
march off away from her, shaking his shoulders in 
jaunty swagger, the sunlight gleaming on his grizzled 
hair, the curls she had loved to pull. She could have 
called him back, and he would have come, but her lips 
were shut and her throat was dry. He vanished round a 
bend of the path, and all that was left of him was a 
crunching footstep, heavy on last year’s leaves. Then 
that too was gone, and with a little moan Ivy slid down 
among the foxgloves and bennets, and sobbed with her 
forehead against the earth. 


6 

After a little while she pulled herself up and wiped 
her eyes. Her head ached and Twelve Pound Wood was 
blurry with her tears. The sun struck down upon her 
back, baking, aching, mocking her with the thick yellow 
light in which the flies danced and the pollen hung. She 
wanted to creep into the shade. 

But she must go home and save her face. It was 
dinner-time, and she must join her family with her old 
bravery, or they would suspect her humiliation. She rose 
to her feet, smoothed her dress, dusted off the bennet 
flowers and goose-foot burrs and the rub of pollen from 
the foxgloves, pushed back the straggling hair under her 


IVY 


177 


hat, wiped her eyes again, and hoped the stains and 
blotches of her weeping would fade before she came to 
Worge. Then she set out for the opening of the wood. 
A man’s shadow lay across it, though she could not see 
him as he stood behind an ash-stump. Her breathing be- 
came shallow, and her heart thudded. . . . He had come 
back, to find her in her weakness — he was waiting for 
her. . . . No, it was not he, this smaller man, crouched 
like a fox against the stump. 

“Jerry,” she cried, as she turned the elbow of the path, 
and met him face to face. 

He was drunk ; his eyes showed it with their gleam of 
bleared stars, his flushed cheeks and dark swelled veins, 
his hair hanging in a fringe over his brow, his mouth both 
fierce and loose. . . . He lurched towards her, and she 
just managed to brush past him, tumbling ungracefully 
over the hurdle that shut off the wood. He must have 
just come, for he had missed Seagrim — he might have 
stumbled over her as she lay and cried among the 
grasses. 

She did not fall as she jumped the hurdle, but her 
ankle turned, making her stagger, and by the time she 
could right herself, Jerry stood before her, blocking the 
way to the Street. Then she saw for the first time that 
he had a hammer in his hand. Ivy gave a loud scream, 
and darted sideways, scrambling through the hedge into 
Twelve Pound field. Jerry was after her, without a 
word, no longer the furtive, padding animal she had 
despised, but the armed and terrible beast of prey that 
would kill and devour the foolhardy huntress who had 
roused him. She staggered up the field, too breathless to 
cry, but he drew even with her in a few strides, and 
grabbed her by the arm. 

“ Stop, Ivy, and say your prayers. I’m going to kill 
you.” 


178 


THE FOUR ROADS 


She could not speak, for her throat was dried up. 
Jerry's eyes were more of a threat than his word. They 
were on fire — his skin was on fire — liquor and madness 
had set him alight ; and in his hand was a hammer to 
hammer out her brains. She could neither cry to his 
mercy nor appeal to his reason — her physical powers 
were failing her, and both mercy and reason in him had 
been burnt up. 

He gave her a violent push, and she fell on her knees. 

“ That's right. Say your prayers. I’m a clergyman's 
son, and you shan't die without asking pardon for your 
sins. I saw you go into the wood with him, as you 
wouldn't with me . . . I’ll kill you quick, you shan’t 
have any pain ... I loved you once, I reckon." 

He swung up the hammer, but he was too drunk to 
take aim, and the action woke her out of the trance of 
fear into which he had plunged her. She felt something 
graze bruisingly down her hip — then she was scram- 
bling on her feet again, rushing for the hedge. 

The hedge of Twelve Pound field is a thick hedge of 
wattles and thorn. Ivy, too mad to look for a gap, tried 
to force her way through it. Her head and arms stuck, 
and she heard Jerry running. Then at last loud screams 
broke from her — scream after scream, as he seized her 
by the feet and pulled her backwards through the 
brambles, leaving shreds of blue gown and yellow hair 
on every twig. He pulled her out, and flung her rolling 
on the grass ; then the hammer swung again. . . . 

But the field was full of shoutings and voices, of feet 
trampling round her head. Then two hands came under 
her armpits, dragging her up, and she saw her father. 
She saw her brother Harry, looking very green and 
scared, and last of all Jerry plunging in the lock of two 
huge arms, which gripped him powerless and belonged 
to the Reverend Mr. Sumption. 


IVY 179 

“ Take her away/’ said the minister. “ I’ll keep hold 
of the boy.” 

“ I wouldn't have hurt her,” moaned Jerry. “ I’m a 
clergyman's son — I'd have killed her without any pain.” 

“ Come hoame, Ivy,” said Mus’ Beatup, and began to 
lead her away. 

“ Is it dinner-time ? ” asked Ivy stupidly. 

Harry gave a nervous guffaw. 

“ I'll be round and see you, neighbour,” said Sump- 
tion, “ soon as I've got this poor boy safe.” 

“ 4 Pore boy ' indeed ! ” grunted Mus’ Beatup. “ * Pore 
boy 9 as ud have bin murdering my daughter if Harry and 
I hadn't had the sperrit to break your valiant Sabbath in 
the Street field. Look at his gurt big murdery hammer.” 

“ He would not have used it — for the Angel of the 
Lord led me to him, and it was the Angel of the Lord 
who saved both him and the girl, despite your Sabbath- 
breaking.” 

“ Then the Angel of the Lord can saave him another 
wunst — when I have him brung up for murdering. 
Come along, do, Harry.” 

Jerry was silent now, nor was he struggling. He 
looked suddenly very ill, and as Ivy stumbled blindly 
down the field on her father's arm, she had a memory 
of his drawn white face lolling sideways on the minister's 
shoulder. 


7 

Two-edged disgrace struck at Ivy both at home and 
in the village — for the double reason of Jerry’s assault 
and Seagrim’s parade. The latter was almost the wicked- 
est in the Beatups’ eyes, for it had the most witnesses — 
the former had no witnesses but themselves and Mr. 
Sumption, though when Mus' Beatup led Ivy home, Mus' 
Putland was already climbing the stile and Mus' Bourner 


180 


THE FOUR ROADS 


running out of his door. It could be hushed up, muffled 
and smoothed, whereas the whole Street had seen Ivy in 
her flaunt of wedded Seagrim — “ A bad ’un,” “ a hussy ” 
she would be called from Harebeating to Puddledock. 

“ ’Tis sent for a judgment on you,” said Mrs. Beatup. 
"If you hadn’t gone traipsing and strutting wud that 
soldier, I reckon as gipsy Jerry had never gone after you 
wud his hammer.” 

“ I wurn’t a-going to show ’em as I minded their 
clack,” sobbed Ivy against the kitchen table — “ I said 
as ‘ I’ll taake him out this wunst, just to show ’em I 
aun’t bin fooled, and then I’ll git shut of un.’ And I 
dud, surelye.” 

“ And a valiant fool you’re looking now, my girl — 
run after and murdered, or would have bin, if your 
father hadn’t a-gone weeding the oats and heard your 
screeching. Reckon as half the Street heard it at their 
dinners. We’ll have the law of Minister and his gipsy.” 

So they would have done, had it not been brought 
home to them that “ the law ” would hoist them into 
that publicity they wanted to avoid. If Jerry were tried 
for attempted murder, all the disgraceful story of Ivy 
and Seagrim would be spread abroad, not only throughout 
Sunday Street and Brownbread Street and the other ham- 
lets of Dallington, but away north and south and east 
and west, to Eastbourne, Hastings, Seaford, Brighton, 
Grinstead, and everywhere the Sussex News was read. 

So the Beatups agreed to forego their revenge on con- 
dition that the Rev. Mr. Sumption took Jerry away for 
the few days remaining of his leave, and did not have 
him back at the Horselunges on any future occasion. 

“ You can’t hurt my boy without hurting your girl,” 
he told them, “ so best let it alone and keep ’em apart. 
I’m sorry for what’s happened, and maybe Jerry is, and 
maybe he’s not. I reckon Satan’s got him.” 


181 


IVY 

“ Reckon he has,” said Mrs. Beatup spitefully, “ and 
reckon when Satan gits childern it’s cos faathers and 
mothers have opened the door. ’Tis a valiant thing fur a 
Christian minister not to know how to breed up his own 
young boy. But the shoemaker’s wife goes the worst 
shod, as they say, and reckon hell’s all spannelled up wud 
parsons’ children.” 

“ Reckon you don’t know how to speak to a clergy- 
man ” — and the Rev. Mr. Sumption turned haughtily 
from the wife to the husband, who was, however, big 
with an attack on Sunday observance, and no discussion 
could go forward till he had been delivered of it. 

In the end the matter was settled, and the parting was 
fairly friendly. The Beatups had a queer affection for 
their pastor mingled with their disrespect, and admired 
his muscle if they despised his ministrations. The pro- 
ceedings ended in an adjournment to the stables, where 
Mr. Sumption gave sound and professional advice on a 
sick mare. 

8 

Poor Ivy felt as if she could never hold up her head 
again. The very efforts she had made to avoid con- 
tempt had resulted in bringing it down on her in double 
measure. Garbled stories of her misadventure ran about 
the Street. It was said that she had been walking out 
with two men at once, that Seagrim had jilted her be- 
cause of Jerry and Jerry tried to do her in because of 
Seagrim. There were other stories, too, some more 
creditable, and some less — and they all found their way 
to Worge, where they provoked the anger of her father, 
the querulousness of her mother, the shrinking contempt 
of Nell, and the loutish sniggers of Harry and Zacky. 

Ivy was not a sensitive soul, but the Beatup attitude 
was warranted to pierce the thickest skin. The family 


182 


THE FOUR ROADS 


could not let the matter drop, and kept it up even after 
those outside had let it fall in to amiable “ disremember- 
ing.” Ivy’s exuberant correspondence with the forces, 
her amorous past, her scandalous future, all became sub- 
jects of condemnation. Her people did not mean to be 
unkind, but they nagged and scolded. Perhaps the balk- 
ing of their revenge on Jerry Sumption made them spe- 
cially unmerciful towards Ivy — she had to face the tor- 
rent of the diverted stream. She had disgraced them as, 
apparently, none of Mus’ Beatup’s muddled carouses or 
gin-logged collapses had done. The fine, if beer-blown 
flower of the Beatups had been hopelessly picked to 
pieces by her wantonness and indiscretion. Nell was per- 
haps the most really vindictive of the lot (for Mus’ 
Beatup was easy-going and Mrs. Beatup loved her daugh- 
ter through all her reproaches), because she saw in Ivy’s 
disgrace another danger to her hopes. She had enough 
odds against her in her poor little reedy romance without 
all the spilth of Ivy’s bursting thick amours to come 
tumbling over it, choking out its life. Ivy’s village 
friends turned against her too, for Polly Sinden was still 
trying to live up to Bill Putland, and Jen Hollowbone of 
the Foul Mile remembered the theft of Kadwell and 
taunted “ Sarve her right.” Thvrza, her sister-in-law, 
was still friendly, but though Ivy liked Thvrza, there had 
never been any real confidence or comradeship between 
them — the elder girl was too quiet, too settled, and had 
always been lacking in that indefinite quality which makes 
a woman popular with her own sex. Ivv did not respond 
to Thyrza’s few tentative efforts, made, she suspected, out 
of pity, and a sense of duty to Tom. Besides, her trouble 
had soured for the time even her own sweet honest heart, 
and the sight of Thyrza secure of a man’s love and an 
even more wonderful hope, smote her with an unbear- 
able sense of her own failure and loneliness. 


IVY 


183 


For the worst of all that Ivy had to bear was her love 
for Seagrim, still alive, though wounded and outraged. 
Her old gay interest in young men, her comradeships 
and correspondences, had faded out and could occupy 
her no more. Her heart was full of a mixed dread and 
hope of meeting him again. Sometimes when the purple 
chaffy evenings drew down over the fields, and the smell 
of ripening grain and ripening hops made sweet sick per- 
fume on the drowsy air, an ache which was almost mad- 
ness would drive her out into the lanes, seeking him by 
the tall stile at Four Wents, where he would never come 
again. The fiery horn of the moon, the jigging candles 
of the stars, would glow out of the grape-coloured sky as 
she went home through a fog of tears, slipping and 
stumbling in the ruts, dreaming of his step beside her and 
his arm about her and his bulk all black in the dimness 
of the lane. . . . Then suddenly she would hate him for 
all he had made her suffer, for all the lies he had told 
her and all the truths, for the kisses he had given her and 
the tears that he had cost her — and the hate would hurt 
more than love, choke her and burn her, make her throw 
herself sobbing and gasping into bed, where the hunch 
of Nell's cold shoulder and the polar stars that hung in 
the window joined in preaching the same lesson of lone- 
liness. 

Then one day she made up her mind quite suddenly 
to bear it no longer. “ If you have much more of this 
you’ll go crazy,” she said to herself, “ — so git shut of 
it, Ivy Beatup.” 

9 

Ivy’s disappearance was not found out till late in 
the evening. In spite of the dejection and heartache 
of the last week, her failure to appear at supper with a 
healthy appetite was an alarming sign. It was now 


184 


THE FOUR ROADS 


remembered that no one seemed to have seen her all 
the evening. Mrs. Beatup burst into tears. 

“ She’s chucked herself into the pond, for sartain- 
sure. You’ve bin so rough wud her, Maaster — you’ve 
bruk her heart, surelye.” 

“ I rough wud a girl as has disgraced us all ! I’ve 
took no notice of her a dunnamany days.” 

“ That’s why, I reckon. You’ve bruk her heart. Git 
along, Harry, and drag the pond, and doan’t sit staring 
at me lik a fowl wud gapes.” 

“ Maybe she’s only gone into Senlac to see the pic- 
tures.” 

“ And maybe she’s only run away wud that lousy 
furrin soldier of hern.” 

“ I tell you she’s drownded. I feel it in my boans. 
She’s floating on the water lik a dead cat. Go out and 
see, Harry ! Go out and see ! ” 

Zacky began to howl. 

“ Adone, do, mother ! ” cried Harry. “ You’re the one 
fur the miserables. Reckon Ivy’s only out enjoying 
herself.” 

“I’d go myself,” sobbed Mrs. Beatup, “ but my oald 
legs feel that swummy. Oh, I can see her floating, all 
swelled up ! ” 

During this scene Nell had slipped out of the room. 
She was now back in the doorway, saying icily — 

“ You needn’t worry. Ivy’s taken all her clothes with 
her.” 

The family took a little time to get the drift of her 
words. 

“ All her clothes ! ” murmured Mrs. Beatup faintly. 

“ Yes — in the pilgrim-basket, so you may be sure she 
hasn’t drowned herself.” 

“ She’s gone away wud that dirty soldier ! ” cried 
Mus’ Beatup. “ That justabout proves it.” 


IVY 


185 


“ It doan’t,” said his wife. “ Ivy’s an honest girl.” 

“ An honest girl as walks out wud a married man fur 
all the Street to see, and then goes and gits half murdered 
by a gipsy ! ” 

“ A clergyman’s son,” corrected Mrs. Beatup. “ And 
it wurn’t her fault, nuther. Our Ivy may be a bit flighty, 
but she’s pure as the morning’s milk.” 

“ Whur’s she gone, then? She’d nowheres to go. You 
doan’t know the warld as I do, and I tell you she’s gone 
wud un, and be hemmed to her. We’re all disgraced and 
ull never hoald up our heads agaun.” 

“ I woan’t believe it.” 

“ You’re an obstinate oald wife — I tell you it’ll be 
proved to-morrer.” 

“ How?” 

“ I’ll go to the camp myself and find out. If Sea- 
grim’s gone too, then it’s proved.” 

The family went to bed convinced, except for Mrs. 
Beatup — who kept up a mulish belief in her daughter’s 
honesty — that Ivy had run away with Seagrim. 

The next morning Mus’ Beatup set out for Hailsham 
to make enquiries. But he had not been fitted by nature 
for a diplomatic visit to a military camp — all he did was 
to fall foul of various sentries and nearly get arrested. 
In the end he found himself back in the road, with noth- 
ing gained except perhaps the fact that he was not in 
the guard-room. He felt as if the whole British Army 
were in league against him, the accomplice of one Cor- 
poral in his crimes, and was scanning the scenery for a 
public-house when he heard the sound of marching feet, 
and a file came tramping up the road, commanded by 
Seagrim himself. 

Mus’ Beatup straddled across his way. 

“Who are you? Stand clear!” cried the Corporal, 
while the file marched stiffly onwards. 


186 


THE FOUR ROADS 


“ Whur’s my daughter? ” 

“ Stand clear — or All have you put under arrest.” 

“ I want my daughter — Ivy Beatup.” 

“ Halt ! ” cried Seagrim to the file, which had now 
marched a discreet distance ahead. “ A don’t knaw owt 
of your daughter. A’ve not clapped eyes on her sine 
Sunday week.” 

“ She’s run away.” 

“ A don’t knaw owt.” 

“ You don’t know where she is? ” 

“ A don’t knaw owt. Quick march ! ” and off went 
he and his file in a cloud of dust, leaving Mus’ Beatup 
furious and confounded. 

“ He’s a militaryist,” he mumbled, “ a hemmed mili- 
taryist — treating me as if I wur pigs’ dirt. That’s wot 
we’re coming to, I reckon, wot Govunmunt’s brung us to 
— militaryists and the pigs’ dirt they spanned on. Ho ! 
there’ll be a revolution soon ” — and he floundered up the 
road towards Hailsham where the sign of the Red Lion 
hung across the way. 


io 

Jerry Sumption knew nothing of Ivy’s disappearance, 
for the morning after that fatal Sunday his father had 
taken him off to Brighton, and from Brighton he had 
gone back to France. In fact his whole notion of the 
affair was hazy — inflamed by one or two unaccustomed 
glasses of bad whisky and the memory of Ivy on Sea- 
grim’s arm, he had rushed and stumbled through what 
seemed to him now a wild nightmare of phantasmagoria 
from which he had waked into aching and disgrace. 

He was sullen company during those few days at 
Brighton. Mr. Sumption had chosen Brighton because 
it was at a safe, and also not too expensive, distance 
from Sunday Street. Moreover, he hoped it would pro- 


IVY 


187 


vide some distraction for Jerry. The financial problem 
had been great, but he had solved it by drawing out the 
whole of his savings. He took a poor little lodging at 
the back of the town, from which he and Jerry travelled 
down daily by ’bus and tram to the diversions of the 
sea-front. 

It was not a quite successful holiday, which was in- 
deed hardly to be expected. Mr. Sumption brought 
preachment to bear on Jerry’s sullenness — he did not 
understand what a hazy impression the catastrophe had 
made, and that to him, though not to Ivy, the scene by 
Twelve Pound spinney mattered less than that earlier 
scene in Forges Field. Also Mr. Sumption’s ideas of 
amusement were not the same as his son’s. He decided 
to risk the Lord’s displeasure and visit a Picture Palace 
for Jerry’s sake, but was so scandalised by what he saw 
that he insisted on leaving after half an hour’s distress. 

“ Surely it is the house of Satan with those red lights,” 
he exclaimed with sundry cracks and tosses. 

“ What’s the matter with red lights? You get ’em in 
a forge.” 

“ But a forge is the place of honest toil — and a kine- 
ma’s but a place of gaping and idleness and worse : three 
hundred folks got together to see lovers kissing, which 
is a private matter.” 

Jerry laughed bitterly. 

“ Three hundred folk gaping at an ungodly picture, 
who might be saving their souls. I tell you, boy, there 
ull come a red day, that ull burn redder than any forge 
or picture-house, and all the ungodly gazers shall be 
pitched into it like weeds into the oven, and only the 
saints escape — with the singeing of their garments.” 

“ Oh, Father, do speak cheerful. I’m that down- 
hearted.” 

“ Reckon you are, my poor lad — and the Lord rebuke 


188 


THE FOUR ROADS 


me if I add to your burden. This looks a godly sort 
of a pastry-cook’s. Let’s go in and get some tea.” 

The next day was the last of Jerry’s leave, and the 
one that he and his father spent most happily together. 
Mr. Sumption’s ideas of entertainment seemed quite hope- 
less to Jerry, but during those last hours he felt drawn 
closer to the being who he knew was the only friend he 
had. They spent the morning on the pier, listening to 
the band, and in the afternoon went by the motor-bus to 
Rottingdean — a trip so surprisingly expensive that there 
was no money left to pay for their tea, and while the 
other excursionists sat down to long tables, they had to 
wander upon the down, whence they watched the feasters, 
Jerry like a forlorn sparrow and Mr. Sumption like a 
hungry crow, till it was time to go home. 

But all the while the minister could see his son grow- 
ing more dependent on him, and in his heart he thanked 
the Lord. His delight at having won that much poor 
show of affection blinded him a little to the pathos of 
the outlaw clinging to his only prop, before he was flung 
to troubles and dangers which he realised in helpless fore- 
boding. The chapel weed clung to the chapel stone be- 
fore it was rudely torn up and thrown out to the burning. 

Their final parting was abusive, owing to Mr. Sump- 
tion’s having left Jerry’s dinner of sandwiches behind at 
their rooms, but the father would always have a thankful 
memory of that evening when Jerry had been simple and 
grateful and rather childish, and had listened to his good 
advice, and had not interrupted with his cry for cheer- 
fulness the stream of Calvinistic warning. 

They had sat by the big ugly window of their room, 
looking out at the first dim stars pricking the sky above 
Kemp Town. Jerry’s eyes were full of a mysterious 
trouble as they pondered the new serenity of his father’s 
face. 


IVY 189 

“ Father,” he said suddenly, “ you’ll watch and pray 
that Satan don’t get me.” 

“ Satan can’t hurt the elect.” 

“ But maybe I’m not one of the elect. Didn’t seem like 
it on Sunday, did it? ” 

“ That was the Lord’s trial sent to us both — He de- 
livered you unto Satan for a while that you might find 
His ways.” 

“ Reckon His ways are not for my finding.” 

“ I will pray for you, my dear.” 

“ Father, you promise, you swear, as you’ll never let 
me go? I sometimes feel as if there was only you 
standing betwixt me and hell. Reckon you’re the only 
soul in all the world that cares about me.” 

ii 

By the time Mus’ Beatup had groped his stumbling 
way from Hailsham to Sunday Street, the anxieties of 
Worge about Ivy were at an end. A letter had come 
during the morning and was flapped in his face. He 
was not sober enough to read it, nor yet too drunk to 
have it read to him. 

“ 8 Bozzum Square, 

“ Hastings. 

“ Dear Mother, — I hope this finds you well as it leaves 
me at present. I got fed up as the boys say and came 
here. Do you remember Ellen Apps and her folk lived 
at the Fowl Mile up the Hollowbones. She is here work- 
ing on the trams, I heard from Jen, so thought I go and 
ask her. She says I will get a job in a day or 2 with my 
strong physic, so do not worry about me, I am with Ellen 
and hope start work next week. Having no more to 
say, I will now draw to a close. Fondest love from 

“ Your loving daughter, Ivy.” 


190 


THE FOUR ROADS 


“ I toald you as she'd never gone wud Seagrim ! ” cried 
Mrs. Beatup. 

“ Umph," grunted her husband — “ but she's gone on 
the trams, which is next bad to it. Now if she'd gone 
maaking munititions. ..." 

“ Trams is better than munititions." 

“ No it aun't. Fine ladies and duchesses maake muni- 
titions, but I never saw a duchess driving a tram." 

“ Ivy ull never drive a tram — she'd be killed, surelye." 

“ Best thing she cud do for herself now she’s disgraced 
us all — a darter of mine on the trams, a good yeoman's 
darter on the trams . . . 'tis shameful." 

“ But 'tis honest, Maaster — better nor if she’d run 
away wud a man." 

“ Maybe — but 'tis shameful honest. I’m shut of 
her ! " 

“ Oh, Ned ! — our girl ! " 

“ Your girl ! " 

“You cruel, unnatural faather!" 

“ Adone do, and taake off my boots." 

The matter ended temporarily in sniffs and grunts, 
but when Mus' Beatup woke out of the sleep which 
followed the removal of his boots, he reviewed it more 
auspiciously. After all, working on the trams was better 
than working in the fields — suppose Ivy had gone and 
offered her robust services to some neighbouring farmer, 
to some twopenny smallholder perhaps, then the yeoman 
name of Beatup would have indeed been trampled into the 
earth. Now trams were town work, trams were war 
work, trams were engineering. In time “ my darter on 
the trams " began to sound nearly as well as “ my son at 
the front." 

So a letter was written in which Ivy’s choice was 
deplored, though not condemned. She was invited to 
come home, or if obstinate on that point, to turn her 


IVY 


191 


attention to the more aristocratic “ munititions, ,, but 
if it must be trams, then trams it should be unre- 
proached. 

Ivy wrote back in a few days, saying that she had 
“joined up ” and enclosing a photograph of herself in 
uniform. She would soon be earning thirty shillings a 
week, and had taken a room of her own in Bozzum 
Square. Her family had now quite forgiven her, espe- 
cially as they found the neighbourhood inclined to ap- 
plaud rather than to despise Beatup’s daughter on the 
trams. Her mother would have liked her home, but Ivy 
was quite firm about sticking to her job. “ I’m best away 
from the Street as things are, and I’ll send you five shill- 
ings a week home, and you can get a girl with that and 
what you save from my keep.” But it would have taken 
two girls to make a real substitute for Ivy. 

Mrs. Beatup, besides the gap in her motherly feelings, 
missed her terribly about the house. Her sturdy willing- 
ness to scrub or clean, her cheery indifference to the 
little indelicacies of emptying slops or gutting chickens, 
her unfailing good-humour and bubbling vitality, the 
rough, tender comfort she gave in hours of sorrow, all 
made Ivy of a special, irreplaceable value in her mother’s 
working-day. Nell refused to give up her “ teachering,” 
and spoke obstinately of indentures, and other irrelevant 
puzzles. Anyhow her squeamishness — she even washed 
the dishes with a wrinkled nose — and the delicacy of her 
small soft hands would make her pretty useless in hen- 
house or kitchen. Mrs. Beatup began to talk of Ivy as 
much as she thought of her, and soon her family came 
to find her more of a nuisance now she was away than 
she had been at home in her most disruptive moments. 

However, her forgiveness was complete, and the recon- 
ciliation was celebrated by a solemn ride in “ Ivy’s tram ” 
by all the Beatups. It was during the summer holidays, 


192 


THE FOUR ROADS 


so Nell was able to go — Mrs. Beatup wore her Dionysian 
bonnet, and her husband his best Sunday blacks, Harry 
and Zacky were scrubbed and collared into oafishness, the 
house was shut up and left in charge of Elphick and 
Juglery, as it had never been since Tom’s wedding. 

“ Ivy’s tram ” was on the line from the Albert Me- 
morial to Ore, and ground its way through dreadful 
suburbs up Mount Pleasant, past the decayed “ resi- 
dences ” of Hastings’ prime, slabbed with stucco and 
bulging with bow-windows, now all grimed and peeled 
and darkened, chopped into lodgings and sliced into flats, 
not the ghost of prosperity but its rotting corpse. 

The tram ground and screamed and swished on the 
rails, and Ivy, rosy-faced under her tramwayman’s cap 
— with its peak over the curl that hid her ear — came 
forcing her way up the inside for fares, taking from each 
Beatup its separate penny. She looked exuberantly well, 
and quite happy again ; she also smelled strongly of tram- 
oil, and Nell’s little nose wrinkled even more than when 
she had smelt of soapsuds and milk. She had a cheery 
word for each one of her family, who in their turn sat 
abashed, holding their tickets stiffly between finger and 
thumb, their eyes slewed on Ivy as she took other pas- 
sengers’ fares, answered their questions, trundled them 
out, bundled them in, pulled the bell, ran up to the roof, 
changed the sign, and flung a little good-humoured chaff 
at Bill the motorman when they reached the terminus. 

She had no time off till late that evening, so when the 
family had ridden in state to Ore, they rode back again 
to the Memorial. The parting was a little spoiled by 
the crowd which was waiting to board the tram and re- 
duced Mrs. Beatup’s farewell embrace into something 
grabbing and unseemly. 

“ Good-by, mother dear, and doan’t you vrother. I’m 
valiant here. . . . Full inside, ma’am, and no standing 


IVY 


193 


allowed on the platform. . . . Now, Nell, take care of 
mother and hold her arm — she’s gitting scattery — and 
adone, do, mother, for there’s too many fares on the top, 
and I’m hemmed if I haven’t bitten a grape out of your 
bonnet.” 

12 

It was night before the dislocations of train and trap 
brought the Beatups back to Worge. A big yellow moon 
was swinging high, scattering a honey-coloured dust of 
light on the fields and copses and little lanes. The 
farms, hushed and shut, lay dark against their grain- 
fields drooping with harvest — in some fields the corn was 
already cut and shocked, each tasselled cone standing in 
the moonlight beside the black pool of its shadow. 

The Beatups were silent — owing perhaps to their con- 
gestion in the trap. Nell was tired, and leaned against 
her mother. Life seemed a very sordid trip, in spite of 
the honey-coloured moon, which swung so high, the type 
of unfulfilled desire. Mrs. Beatup was thinking of Ivy 
and wondering if the soles of her boots were thick enough ; 
and Zacky, wedged between them, planned a big hunt 
for conkers the next day. On the front seat, Mus’ 
Beatup sucked at his pipe and schemed a dash for the 
Rifle Volunteer before closing time. “ If the War goes 
on much longer, there’ll be no more beer, so I mun git 
wot’s to be had. It’s those Russians, and be hemmed to 
them; reckon they’ll maake peace and never care if the 
War goes on a dunnamany year. It’s the sort of thing 
you’d expect of chaps wot went teetotal by Act of Parlia- 
ment.” 

Harry drove the old gelding, and as the trap lurched 
from farm to farm he marked those which had cut their 
grain, and which had not. They had reaped the Penny 
field at Cowlease, and the old bottoms of Slivericks stood 


194 


THE FOUR ROADS 


shocked beside the stream. Egypt Farm, with late hardy 
sowings, had not started — Worge started to-morrow. 

That visit to Hastings had been a holiday before the 
solemn business of the year. For a long time he had 
planned his reaping — trudging the fields each day, finger- 
ing the awns, rubbing the straw. He must not cut too 
early or too late. Last year the oats had stood till they 
shed their seed, this year they must be caught in just the 
right moment of wind and sun. 

On the whole the crops promised well. The old 
grounds of the Volunteer and the Street field had borne 
splendidly — the ploughed grass-lands not so well, except 
for Forges field, which, for some obscure reason, had 
brought forth a rich yield from its sour furrows. On 
the whole the wheat promised better than the oats, which 
in spite of the varieties he had chosen had thickened in 
the clays, and grown unwieldy with sedge leaves and tulip 
roots. 

The problem of harvesting had worried him for a long 
time, for Mus’ Beatup absolutely refused to buy a steam 
reaper-and-binder ; he wurn’t going to take no risks in 
war-time, and Harry must make what shift he could with 
the old horse machine, which had trundled slowly round 
the few acres of earlier Worge harvests, and must even 
trundle round the width of this new venture. In vain 
Harry pointed out the labour needed for binding — he 
must get help, that was all ; the family would turn to, as 
it always did in harvest time. The absence of Ivy was a 
hard blow — for she practically did the work of a man — 
but he found an unexpected substitute in the curate, who 
with the other country clergy had been episcopally urged 
to lend a hand in harvest time. Mr. Poullett-Smith had 
watched young Beatup’s effort with an approval which 
condoned his wobblings between Church and chapel, and 
felt, moreover, that his help might send a balance down 


IVY 


195 


on the Church side. He was a little scandalised to find 
soon after that Harry had also drawn in the Rev. Mr. 
Sumption — the curate’s offer put it into his head ; besides, 
it was just the sort of thing one asked of Mr. Sumption — 
it seemed far more his job than preaching or praying. 

The other helpers would just be the family, this time 
including Nell, for where her parson went she could go 
also, in spite of stained and welted hands. Elphick and 
Juglery could do about one man’s work between them, and 
there was a boy over school age on the loose in the 
village, who was hired for ten shillings and his meals. 

Harry had written to Tom and told him of his matur- 
ing plans, but either his marriage had breached him from 
Worge, or the fact that the disciple had gone so much 
further than his master had made his anxious ardour 
cool away. His latest communication had been a field 
postcard, which, as he had forgotten to put a cross against 
any of its various items, presented a bewildering and con- 
flicting mass of information, which Harry flipped into the 
coals with a wry smile. 

However, he was able to stand alone, for he dared the 
chances of his new deeds. Oafish as he looked in his 
Sunday suit and gasper collar, the adventure of harvest 
was upon him as he jolted the old trap home under the 
moon. “ Behold, the fields stand white to harvest ”... 
the words drifted like a cloud over his brain. These 
fields that he had prepared, that his plough had torn and 
his harrow broken, were fields of battle like the fields 
in France. On them he had fought, for the same reason 
as Tom fought the Germans, all the treacheries and as- 
saults of nature, her raiding winds, her storming rains, 
her undermining rottenness in the soil, her blasting of 
thunder and choking of heat. 

“ Reckon to-morrow’s our Big Push,” he said to his 
father, rather proud of the metaphor, and was careful 


196 THE FOUR ROADS 

that the old horse did not hurry stablewards too quickly, 
lest they should be home before the closing of the Rifle 
Volunteer, and lose a soldier thereby. 

13 

The next day broke out of a dandelion sky above 
Harebeating, but before the first pale colours had filtered 
into the white of the east, Harry was on his legs, pottering 
in the yard. All the little odds of farmwork must be 
done early, to leave him free for the day’s great doings. 
He anxiously snuffed the raw air — could its moisture, 
distilled in the globes that hung on thatch and ricks, be 
the warning of a day’s rain? The barometer stood high, 
but, like other Sussex farmers, he had learned to distrust 
his barometer, knowing the sudden tricks of turning 
winds, the local rains drunk out of the marshes, the 
chopping of the Channel tides. He disliked the flamy 
look of the sky, the glassiness of its reflection in the 
ponds ... he thought he felt a puff from the south- 
west. “ O Lord,” he prayed, kneeling down behind the 
cowhouse door, “ doan’t let it rain till we’ve got our 
harvest in. If faather loses money this fall, he’ll never 
let me breake up grass agaun. Please, Lord, kip it fine, 
wud a short east wind, and doan’t let anyone stay away 
or faather go to the Volunteer till we’ve adone. For 
Christ’s sake. Amen.” 

Feeling soothed and reassured, he went in to break- 
fast. 

The family was of mixed and uncertain mood. Mrs. 
Beatup was “ vrothering ” about what she could give 
the clergymen for dinner — “ not as I care two oald 
straws about Mus’ Sumption, but Mus’ Smith he mun 
be guv summat gentlemanly to put inside.” Zacky was 
crossly scheming how best to carry through the conker 


IVY 


197 


plan which Harry had rather threateningly forbidden. 
Nell was in a nervous flutter, her colour coming and 
going, her little hands curling and twitching under the 
table. Mus’ Beatup was given over to an orgie of pessi- 
mism, and before breakfast was finished had traced 
Worge’s progress from a blundered harvest to the auc- 
tioneer’s. 

“ There’s too many fields gitting ripe together,” he 
said drearily. “ You shudn’t ought to have maade your 
sowings so close. Wot you want now is a week’s fine 
weather on end, and all your wark done on a wunst. 
You’ll never git it, surelye — the rain ull be on you before 
it’s over. Reckon the Sunk Field ull have seeded itself 
before you’re at it. You shud ought to have sown it 
later.” 

v “ It’s fine time to think of all that now.” 

“ I’ve thought of it afore and agaun, but you’d never 
hearken. You think you’ve got more know than your 
faather wot wur a yeoman afore you wur born and never 
bruk up grass in his life.” 

“ There’s Mus’ Sumption,” cried Mrs. Beatup, look- 
ing out of the window. “ He’s middling early — reckon 
he wants some breakfast.” 

She reckoned right. Mrs. Hubble of the Horselunges 
had refused to get breakfast for her lodger at such an 
ungodly hour, and he had prowled round fasting to the 
Beatups, eyeing their bacon and fried bread through the 
window. 

“ The labourer is worthy of his hire,” he remarked as 
he sat down to the table, “ and thou shalt not muzzle the 
ox which treadeth the corn. ...” 

After breakfast they all went out to the Volunteer 
field, which was to be cut first. Harry took charge of the 
reaper, with Zacky a scowling protestant at the horse’s 
head, while the others turned to the sickling and binding. 


198 


THE FOUR ROADS 


Mr. Poullett-Smith had not arrived, having first to read 
Mattins and eat his breakfast, but he came about an hour 
after the start, a tall, bending, monkish figure, feeling just 
a little daring in his shirt-sleeves. 

The meeting of the two parsons was friendliest on 
the Anglican side. Mr. Poullett-Smith was a good 
example of the Church of England’s vocation “ to pro- 
vide a resident gentleman for every parish ” — besides, 
he pitied Sumption. The fellow was so obviously mis- 
fitted by his pastorate — a fanatical, ignorant Calvinism, 
blown about by eschatological winds, was his whole 
equipment ; otherwise, thought the curate, he had neither 
dignity, knowledge nor education. He would have been 
far happier had he been left a blacksmith, had his half- 
crazy visions been allowed to burn themselves out like his 
forge fires, instead of being stoked by mistaken patronage 
and inadequate theological training. As things stood, he 
was absurd, even in no worthier setting than a forgotten 
village Bethel — a mere caricature of a minister, even in 
the pulpit of the Particular Baptists, an old-fashioned and 
fanatical sect with their heads full of doomsday. But 
here among the reapers he was splendid. His open shirt 
displayed a neck strong and supple and plump as a boy’s 
— the grey homespun was stuck with sweat to his shoul- 
ders, and the huge muscles of his back showed under it 
in long ovoid lumps. His years had taken nothing from 
his strength, merely added to his solidness and endur- 
ance. With his shock of brindled curls, his comely brown 
skin, his teeth white as barley-kernels, and eyes bright and 
deep as a hammer pond, and all the splendour of his body 
from shoulder to heel, he was as fine a specimen of a 
man as he was a poor specimen of a minister. Mr. Poul- 
lett-Smith paid him the honour due to his body, while 
seeing no honour due to his soul. 

Mr. Sumption felt his physical superiority to the wil- 


IVY 


199 


lowy, tallow-faced curate ; indeed he had a double advan- 
tage over him, for he felt a spiritual towering too. He 
despised his doctrines of Universal Redemption and 
Sacramental Grace just as much as he despised his lean 
white arms and delicate features. He gave his hand a 
grip that made him wince — he could feel the bones crack- 
ing under the pressure . . . “ He keeps his hands white 
that he may hold the Lord’s body,” he thought to himself. 

The day was hot and misty. The blue sky glowed 
with a thick, soft heat, and a yellowish haze blurred 
hedges and barns. Even the roofs of Worge seemed far 
away, and the sounds of the neighbouring farms were 
dim — but distant sounds came more clearly, a siren 
crooned on the far-off sea, and the mutter of guns came 
like a tread over the motionless air. Harry heard it as 
he drove the reaper, mingling with the swish of sickles 
and the rub of hones. 

For greater quickness, he had split the field into two 
unequal parts — the bigger one he was cutting with the 
reaper, the smaller was being cut by hand. Mr. Sump- 
tion, Mus’ Beatup and Elphick reaped, while Nell, the 
curate, Juglery and the boy from Prospect Cottages 
bound the sheaves. The old horse went so slowly that the 
sickles worked nearly as fast as the machine. After a 
time Harry gave up his place to his father, who had been 
unfitted by illness and intemperance for much strenuous 
work. 

At first there was some talking and joking among the 
harvesters, but soon this wore to silence in the heat. 
Only from where Mr. Smith and Nell stooped together 
over the reaped corn, gathering it into sheaves, came 
murmurs of sound. Nell’s pale cheeks and lips were 
flushed with her toil and stooping, and her eyes were 
bright with a pleasure which toil cannot give. Her cotton 
dress, the colour of the sky, set out the brightness of her 


200 


THE FOUR ROADS 


hair, the colour of the corn. Her graceful, ineffectual 
hands, too, pleased the curate, for they were the only pair 
besides his in the field which were not coarse and burnt, 
with stubbed, black nails. Moreover, her pleasure and ex- 
excitement at the day’s long promise made her more 
talkative than usual, and to a better purpose. He found 
that he liked her pleasant, blurry voice, which fled and 
fluttered over her words for fear that she should drawl 
them. 

The sun climbed to the zenith, and the heat not only 
baked down from the sky, but scorched up out of the 
ground. The dust of the earth and of cornstalks filled 
the air with a choking, chaffy thickness. The smell of 
dust came from the road, and from farmyards the smell 
of baking mud. The black oasts of Egypt across the way 
swam in a cloud of heat, and the red oasts of Worge were 
smeared to shadows in the steam of sunshine and dust. 
An aching of blue and yellow was in the harvesters’ eyes, 
and their bodies seemed to melt and drip. The reaper 
crawled even more slowly, with Mus’ Beatup sagging 
drowsily over the reins, and Zacky drooping against old 
Tassell, whose flanks ran with sweat, and from whose 
steaming hide came ammoniacal stable smells, whiffing 
over the harvesters every time he passed. 

Mr. Poullett-Smith looked more than ever like a 
Sienese candle now that his forehead and cheeks were 
dabbled with sweat, like wax that had melted and run. 
He wiped his face periodically with a white handkerchief, 
which annoyed Mr. Sumption, though it was a fact that 
the curate had done excellent work, and made up in 
conscientious energy what he lacked in muscle and 
experience. 

“ Take off your waistcoat, or your sweat ull spoil the 
lining,” called the minister, and Mr. Smith rather un- 
expectedly followed his advice, having, as it happened, 


IVY 


201 


quite lost sight of the pastor in that huge toiling figure, 
now almost bare of chest, with arms swinging like a 
flail. He saw only a labourer more experienced and a 
man more manly than himself, whose muscle he re- 
spected and whose commands he would obey. 

From twelve o’clock onwards the problem for Harry 
had been to keep Mus’ Beatup away from the Rifle 
Volunteer. The field being near the Street, they could 
hear the pleasing jar of stopping wheels, the slam of 
the taproom door, even the creak of the Volunteer sign. 
As he swung out there over the Street, with his grey- 
green uniform and obsolete rifle, he seemed to say, “ In 
my day yeomen never worked at noon, but came and 
drank good beer made of Sussex hops and talked of how 
we’d beat the French. . . . Now there is no good beer, 
and hardly any Sussex hops, and we talk of how we and 
the French together will beat the Germans. But come, 
good yeomen, all the same.” 

Harry thought it advisable to detach Mus’ Beatup 
from the reaper, which trundled him up under the eaves 
of the Volunteer’s huge sprawling roof, so he suggested 
that old Juglery should take his place for a while, and 
that Mus’ Beatup should help with the binding. He also 
persuaded Mr. Sumption to give up his sickle and bind 
till closing-time. He felt that if his father worked be- 
tween the two parsons he would not be so likely to scuffle 
an escape; for in spite of his rationalist enlightenment, 
Mus’ Beatup’s attitude in the presence of the clergy was 
very different from that which he took up in their ab- 
sence — and his contempt of their doctrine was liable to 
be swallowed up in respect for their cloth. 

Dinner was brought out soon after noon by Mrs. 
Beatup and the girl, a hard-breathing young person with 
a complexion like an over-ripe plum. There was beer, 
and there was tea, and bread and cheese — Mrs. Beatup’s 


202 


THE FOUR ROADS 


idea of summat gentlemanly to put inside the clergyman 
materialised in several crumbly sandwiches of tinned cur- 
ried rabbit. They all sat down under the hedge furthest 
from the Volunteer, and were all rather silent, except 
Mr. Sumption, who had scarcely tired himself with the 
morning's work and thought this a good opportunity to 
enter into an argument, or “ hold a conference,” as he 
put it, with Mr. Poullett-Smith on the doctrine of Effica- 
cious Grace. Mr. Smith, besides the reluctance of his 
Anglican breeding to discuss theology with an outsider, 
and his feeling as a public-school man that it was bad 
form to talk shop in mixed company, was far from theo- 
logically minded. Though he would not have owned it 
for worlds, he was already tired out. The continual 
stooping with the hot sun on his back had made him feel 
sick and dizzy, and Mrs. Beatup’s curried sandwiches had 
finished the work of the sun and roused definite symptoms 
of an indelicate nature. He lay against the hedge, looking 
languid and curiously human in his open shirt, his hair 
hanging a little over his forehead. Nell sat on her heels, 
and her eyes played over him tenderly, almost maternally. 

“ Reckon you're tired," she said in a low, drawling 
voice that no one else could hear. 

They did not go back to work till nearly two, and the 
danger for Mus’ Beatup was over for the time. The 
afternoon was, as usual, more tiring than the morning, 
for the earth, if not the sun, was hotter, Hmbs were tired 
and stomachs were full. Harry mounted the curate on 
the reaper, though he was not much of a success, as he 
failed to realise the power of old Tassell’s habit, and did 
vigorous rein-work at the corners, with the result that the 
old horse was thrown completely off his bearings, and on 
one occasion nearly charged down the hedge, on another 
knocked over Zacky, and once came wearily to a stand- 
still with all four feet in the uncut corn. 


IVY 


203 


Mr. Poullett-Smith decided that he preferred binding 
to reaping, and was glad to find himself back beside 
Nell with her delicate ways — it was wonderful, he 
thought, how far she was above her surroundings; he 
had not noticed it before, for he had hardly ever seen 
her against the background of Worge, but in the frame 
of church or school, where her shining was not so bright. 
She was tired, he could see, but she did not grow moist 
and blowsy like the rest — her pretty hair draggled a bit, 
her mouth drooped rather sweetly, but exertion heigh- 
tened her anaemic tints, and there was a glow about her 
when she talked, in spite of her fatigue. 

Suddenly, in the middle of the afternoon, she broke 
away from him, and came back with a glass of water. 

“ Is that for me?” he exclaimed, as she held it out. 
“ Yes. I thought you must be getting thirsty.” 

“ I am — but aren’t you thirsty, too? ” 

“ I had something to drink in the house — this is yours,” 
and she watched him drink with an eager sweetness and 
humility in her eyes. 


14 

For the next two or three days the work went well. 
The Volunteer Field was reaped, and then the Street 
Field; the Sunk and Forges must be s tackled before the 
fine weather came to an end, but the low grounds by 
Bucksteep might be left to stand a little, being sheltered, 
and not quite ready for harvest. Harry’s mixed gang of 
helpers was a bigger success than he had dared hope. 
Mr. Sumption was even better the second day than the 
first, having worked down a stiffness which his big 
muscles had acquired from long disuse. Even Mrs. 
Beatup was impressed, and gave him a fine breakfast 
every morning. The other clergyman was not so useful, 
but he made up in effort what he lacked in achievement, 



204 


THE FOUR ROADS 


and by Friday was doing quite a creditable day’s work. 
Nell was not, of course, much good, still, she was better 
than nothing, and more energetic and good-humoured 
than Harry had ever seen her. Zacky and the hired boy 
conspired in laziness and evil-doing, and Harry was 
grateful when the Rev. Mr. Sumption took it upon him- 
self to knock their heads together. 

On Friday evening grey smears of cloud lay on a 
strange whiteness in the west, and on Saturday the whole 
sky was smudged over with a pale opacity, and the wind 
blew from the South. The labourers found relief from 
the stewing, chaffy stillness of the last few days; but 
Harry snuffed the air and looked wise. 

“ The weather’s breaking up,” he said to his father 
in the dinner-hour. “ We’ll have to work on Sunday.” 

“ Wud two passons ! ” cried Mus’ Beatup. “ They’ll 
never coame. They’ll be preaching tales about dead 
men.” 

“ Reckon we must do wudout them. We durn’t leave 
the Sunk Field till after the weather. Bucksteep can 
wait, surelye, but the Sunk must be reaped before the 
rain.” 

Mus’ Beatup groaned — “ That’s the wust of doing 
aught wud passons. ’Tis naun to them if it rains on 
Monday — all they care is that a dunnamany hunderd 
years agone it rained forty days and forty nights and 
drownded all the world saave Noah and his beasts. 
Bah ! ” and Mus’ Beatup spat into the hedge. 

However, to their surprise, they found both the parsons 
ready to work on Sunday. Mr. Poullett-Smith had no 
less authority than the Archbishop of Canterbury — the 
Archbishop quoted Christ’s saying of the ox in the pit, 
and gave like indulgence to all Churchmen. The Rev. 
Mr. Sumption appeared with no such sanctions. 

“ I’ve got no Randall Cantuar or Charles John Chi- 




IVY 


205 


Chester to tell me I may break the Lord’s commandments. 
Reckon the Assembly ull be against me in this, and the 
Lord Himself ull be against me ; but I’ll risk it. For 
you’re a good lad, Harry Beatup, and I’m going to stand 
by you, and if the Lord visits it on me I must bow to 
His will.” 

When service-time came he had the advantage, for he 
polished off his bewildered congregation in only a little 
over half an hour, whereas the curate was nearly two 
hours at Brownbread Street, with a sung Eucharist. “ I 
can say what I like and pray what I like,” said Mr. 
Sumption. “ I’m not tied down to a Roman Mass-book 
dressed-up Protestant.” 

Mr. Smith heard him in silence. His respect for him 
as a man and a labourer still outweighed his contempt 
for him as preacher and theologian. Also he now felt 
that in matters of religion Mr. Sumption was slightly 
crazed. He could handle a horse or a hammer or a 
sickle with sureness and skill, and talk of them with 
sanity and knowledge, but once let him mount his 
religious notions and he would ride to the devil. Mr. 
Smith came to the conclusion that he was one of those 
crack-brained people who believed that the war was the 
end of the world, the Consummation of the Age foretold 
in Scripture, and that soon Christ would come again in the 
clouds with great glory. — This really was what Mr. Sump- 
tion believed, so Mr. Smith did not misjudge him much. 

By noon on Sunday dark clouds were swagging up 
from the south-west, with a screaming wind before them. 
The fog and dust of the last few days had been followed 
by an unnatural clearness — each copse and fields and pond 
and lane in the country of the Four Roads stood sharply 
out, with inky tones in its colouring. The fields sweep- 
ing down from Sunday Street to Horse Eye were shaded 
from indigo almost to black, and on the marsh the slat- 


206 


THE FOUR ROADS 


ting water-courses gleamed like steel on the heavy teal- 
green of their levels. The sea was drawn in a black line 
against a thick, unhealthy white sky, blotched and 
straggled with grey. 

“ It’ll rain before dusk,” said Harry. “ It can’t hoald 
out much longer.” 

“ We’ll never git the field shocked, let alone brought 
in,” said Mus’ Beatup. “ Here we’ve bin five hour and 
not maade more’n a beginning — it’s lamentaable. Reckon 
we might as well let the Germans beat us — we cudn’t have 
wuss weather.” 

Harry set his teeth. 

“ We’ll git it finished afore the rain.” 

“ Afore your grandmother dies,” jeered Mus’ Beatup. 
“ I’m off to the Volunteer.” 

“ And leave us. . . . Faather!” 

“ I’m not a-going to stay here catching my death wud 
rheumatics, working in the rain under my son’s orders. 
Reckon you’d sooner see me dead than lose your hemmed 
oats — my hemmed oats I shud say — but I — ” and Mus’ 
Beatup swung up his chin haughtily — “ have different 
feelings.” 

“ Reckon you have, and you ought to be ashaumed 
of yourself ! ” cried Harry thickly, then flushed in self 
rebuke, for on the whole he was a respectful son. 

Mus’ Beatup sauntered away, his hands in his pockets, 
his shoulders hunched to his ears — his usual attitude 
when he felt guilty but wanted to look swaggering. Mr. 
Sumption and Mr. Poullett-Smith were both at the 
further end of the field, and no opposition stood between 
him and the Rifle Volunteer save the doubtful quality 
his wife might offer from the kitchen window. Harry 
watched him with burning cheeks and a full throat. 
“ Reckon I’m lik to kip temperance all my days wud 
this,” he mumbled bitterly. 


IVY 


207 


He then went down to the other workers, and told 
them that it was going to rain and that they were a 
labourer short, as his father was feeling ill and had gone 
indoors to rest, but that he hoped by “ tar’ble hard wark ” 
to get the field cut before the storm. “ If the grain’s 
shocked, it’ll bear the rain, but if it’s left standing, the 
rain ull beat down the straw, and all the seed ull fly. 
Juglery, you taake the reaper — Norry Noakes, you git to 
Tassell’s head — Mus’ Sumption and Elphick and I ull 
reap, and Mus’ Smith and Nell and Zacky bind. . . . 
Now I reckon ’tis a fight ’twixt us and them gurt clouds 
over Galleybird.” 

Elphick and Juglery were inclined to grumble at hav- 
ing their dinner-hour cut short, and talked of judgments 
equally bestowed on “ them wot bruk the Sabbath ” and 
“ them wot bruk up grass.” But Mus’ Sumption’s pro- 
fessional opinion was that the approaching storm was not 
in the nature of a punitive expedition — “ If the Lord had 
wanted to spoil this harvest, He would have done it on 
Thursday or Friday; now all He’ll get is the tail-end, 
and not that if I can help it.” 

He bent his huge back to the sickle, and worked for 
the next hour without straightening. Mr. Poullett-Smith 
decided to forget the Sunday-school he was supposed to 
catechise at three, and Nell to forget the headache which 
would probably have sent her off the field at the same 
hour. Norry Noakes and Zacky, seeing their deliverance 
nigh, put more energy into that afternoon than they had 
put into all four other days of harvest — Norry nearly 
dragged Tassell’s head off his neck in his efforts to make 
him go faster. 

At about three o’clock, Mr. Sumption stood up and 
scanned the fields under his hand like Elijah’s servant 
watching for rain. Then he gave a shout that made 
everyone start and straighten their backs. 



208 


THE FOUR ROADS 


“ Lo ! the Lord is on our side — behold more labourers 
for the harvest.” 

Two figures were coming down the field from Worge — 
Ivy Beatup and a soldier. Ivy wore a pink cotton dress, 
belling out all round her with the wind and flapping 
against the soldier’s legs. She also carried unexpectedly 
a pink parasol. 

“ Thought I’d come over and see you all ! ” she bawled 
as soon as she was within earshot. “ This is Sergeant 
Eric Staples from Canada.” 

. . . Canada ! Then no doubt he knew a bit about 
harvesting. Harry went forward to meet them. 

“ Mother toald us you’d half the Sunk to reap before 
the weather,” said Ivy, at closer range, “ so I said we’d 
come and give you a hand, surelye.” 

44 We’ll be unaccountable glad to have you both — the 
rain’s blowing up and we’re short of workers.” 

44 I’m on it, as the boys say, and so’s the Sergeant, I 
reckon.” 

“ Sure,” said Sergeant Staples, staring round him. 

44 Mother’s gitting a valiant supper fur us when ’tis all 
a-done. She says if you’ve bruk the Sabbath one way 
you may as well break it another and maake a good job 
of it. Thyrza’s coming, and is bringing all her tinned 
salmon. Wot do you think of my sunshade, Nell? — 
reckon it’s unaccountable smart,” and Ivy threw it down 
into the stubble and began rolling up her sleeves. 

44 It’s middling kind of you,” said Harry politely to 
Sergeant Staples. 

44 Only too glad — I’ve done a power of this work over 
in Sask. May I ask what this little buggy is?” — 
and he pointed to the nodding erection of old Jug- 
lery chaired above the reins that slacked on Tassell’s 
rump. 

44 That’s the reaper, surelye.” 


IVY 209 

The Canadian did not speak, but the puzzled look 
deepened on his face. 

“ Maybe you’ll taake a sickle, being handy-like? ” 

“ Sure ” — but when Harry gave him Mus’ Beatup’s 
discarded weapon he held it at arm’s length and scratched 
his head. Then he slid up to Ivy — 

“ Say, kid, I never heard before as in the old country 
they cut corn with a pocket-knife.” 

However, he swung his tool handily, and with the two 
new workers, and the extra energy of the old, the reaping 
went forward at a pace which threatened the victory of 
those black clouds over Galleybird. 

The wind blew in droning gusts, swishing in the corn, 
and fiddling in the boughs of Forges Wood. Dead leaves 
began to fly out of the wood, the threat of autumn. The 
men’s shirts blew against their skins, and the women’s 
skirts flew out; the colours of the field grew dim — the 
corn was white, the wood and the hedges were grey — 
only the clothes of the harvesters stood out in smudges 
of pink and blue. Then suddenly rain began to squirt 
down out of a black smeary sky like charcoal — the wind 
screamed, almost flattening the few last rods. No one 
spoke, for no voice could be heard above the howling of 
the wind. Rabbits began to pop out of the corn, but there 
were no hunting dogs, no shouting groups from the cot- 
tages come out to see the fun. When the last sickleful 
had been cut, and the reaper stood still, with old Juglery 
asleep on the seat, the harvesters picked up their coats 
and pulled down their sleeves without a word. 

They were wet through — the muscles of the men’s 
bodies showed through their clinging shirts and the 
women were wringing their gowns. But the Sunk Field 
was reaped and Harry’s harvest saved. He had won his 
battle against his own ignorance, his father’s indifference, 
and the earth’s treacheries. He had vindicated his dar- 


210 


THE FOUR ROADS 


ing, and he would never know how small was the thing he 
had done — a few scrubby acres sown and reaped, a few 
mean quarters of indifferent grain gathered in — he would 
never hear Sergeant Staples say to Sergeant Speed of the 
North-West Provinces that he had spent a slack after- 
noon cutting mustard and cress with a pocket-knife. 

Food was waiting up at the farm, with Thyrza Beatup, 
who, for obvious reasons now, had been unable to help 
with the harvest, but had done her best by contributing 
her entire stock of tinned salmon to the harvest-supper. 
The party began to move off, Mr. Poullett-Smith wrap- 
ping his coat over Nell’s shoulders with hands that per- 
haps strayed a little to touch her neck. Only Mr. Sump- 
tion was left, standing upright and stockish on the rise of 
the field, a huge black shape against the sky. 

“ Come along, Mus’ Sumption,” called Ivy, “ and git 
a nice tea-supper. Thurs tinned salmon and a caake.” 

Mr. Sumption’s voice came to them on the scream of 
the wind — 

“ Shall I go without thanking the Lord of the Harvest 
for His mercies in allowing us to gather in the fruits of 
the earth on the Sabbath Day ? ” 

“ He’s praying,” said Nell, with a shiver of disgust in 
her voice. 

The curate bit his lip. 

“ He’s perfectly right,” he said, and going up to the 
minister, he knelt down in the stubble. The others hud- 
dled in a sheepish group by the gate. Mr. Sumption’s 
prayer was blown over their heads, washed into the woods 
on the rain, but they could hear the groan of his big 
voice in the wind, and here and there a word of his 
familiar prayer-vocabulary. . . . “ Lord . . . day . . . 
oven . . . wicked . . . righteous . . . Satan . . . save 
. . . forgive. . . . Amen.” 


PART V: NELL 


i 

A UTUMN came, and gradually the farm-work slack- 
ened. The Bucksteep acres were cut, not much the 
worse for the storm — the hops were picked, and 
showed a fair crop of fuggles, though the goldings had 
not done so well. Harry sowed catch crops of trifolium 
and Italian rye grass, and started his autumn ploughings. 
Certain reactions had seized him after the harvest, and 
he had gone off wandering in the fields, away to villages 
where he had not strayed for months except to mar- 
ket. But the lapse had been short, for the adventure of 
Worge’s acres was not dead — his imagination had now 
its headquarters and sanctuary in the fields where he 
worked ; he had no need to seek dreams and beauty far 
away, for they grew at his barndoor, and he strawed 
them in the furrows with his grain. 

Tom’s dwindling zeal was reawakened by the account 
of the harvest which Harry scrawled to France — “ Nine 
quarters we got from the Volunteer Field and five from 
the Sunk and six from Forges. Hops and roots did 
middling. All the potash fields were valiant. Maybe 
next year Father will buy a reaper-and-binder. The 
Reverend Mr. Sumption was proper at the harvest.” 
His brother wrote back a letter of which “ Well done, 
young ’un ” was the refrain. “ Queer,” he wrote, “ but 
there’s a Forges Wood out here — they say the 5th Sussex 
named it and it was called something French before. It 
is not like Forges, for it is narrow like a dibble and the 
trees have no branches, being knocked off by crumps and 

211 


212 THE FOUR ROADS 

nothing grows there becos of the gas. There are dead 
horses in it.” 

Tom had seen plenty of fighting that autumn in 
Paschendaele, but was so far well and unhurt. He sent 
Thyrza home a bit of shell which had knocked off his tin 
hat and “ shocked him all of a swum.” Everyone, he 
wrote, had laughed fit to bust at it — Thyrza thought 
that they laughed at queer things in the trenches. She 
fretted a little during those autumn days, for her hope 
was now almost a torment . . . suppose Tom should 
never see the child their love had made. Every day in 
the paper there were long casualty lists, every day tele- 
graph boys and girls went peddling to happy homes and 
blasted them with a slip of paper. They had knocked 
at doors in the country of the Four Roads — the eldest 
Pix had been killed early in October ; then there had 
been the butcher’s son at Bodle Street, and the lawyer’s 
son at Hailsham, and poor Mus’ Piper’s boy had lost 
both legs. . . . The world looked suddenly very grey 
and treacherous to Thyrza ; she dared not hope, lest 
hope should betray her, and her few moments of peaceful 
mother-happiness were riddled with doubts. Oh, if only 
God would let her have Tom back somehow, no matter 
how maimed, how helpless, how dependent on her. . . . 
Then she would suddenly react from her desire, shrink 
back in horror at the thought of Tom wounded, his 
strong sweet body all sick and disfigured. . . . “ Better 
dead,” she would groan — and yet, a dead father for her 
child. . . . She found war a very tar’ble thing. 

During the earlier years she had, in company with 
most people in the country of the Four Roads, passed 
lightly under its yoke. Even her widowhood had not 
brought it down upon her — Sam had so often left her, 
might so easily have come to grief in other ways. Except 
for those who were actually and poignantly bereaved, 


NELL 


213 


the War made little difference to a large multitude for 
whom it existed only in France and in the newspapers. 
For a big section of England it did not begin till 1916, 
for it was not till then that it actually set foot on English 
soil. In 1916 the Conscription Act, the food scarcity, 
and War Agricultural Committees dumped it down on 
the doorsteps of Sussex folk who up till then had ignored 
it as a furrin business. Thyrza had not thought about 
it much — she had read the newspapers, and given little 
bits of help to war charities that appealed to her ; but 
now that it had taken the man she loved, it had taken 
her too. She was tied with him to its chariot-wheels, 
one of the nameless victims of the great woe. 

Her business, too, fretted her. She was not able for 
the exertions of the times, and was worried by the diffi- 
culties of getting supplies. To have no sweets for the 
little children who came in with their pennies, no tea for 
the old men and women who wanted it to warm and 
cheer their poor rheumatic bodies, no cheese and no 
bacon for the young men who worked in the fields . . . 
all this grieved her gentle heart, and she brooded over it 
in a way she would not have done had she been in her 
usual health. She grew pale and nervous, found she had 
but little to say to lingering customers, sat huddled limply 
over her fire, rising slowly and heavily when the buzz 
of the little bell that used to be so gay forced her to exert 
herself and go to the door. 

In this state, Mrs. Beatup took pity on her, and forgot 
the tacit warfare of the mother on the wife. If Thyrza 
was going to give a child to Tom, she was also going to 
give a grandchild to Tom’s mother. She often waddled 
down to the shop with good advice, or asked Thyrza up 
for an evening at Worge, and developed a new and un- 
expected optimism for her comfort. 

“ Reckon if Tom’s alive he’ll stick alive to the end — 


/ 


214 THE FOUR ROADS 

if he’d bin going to be killed he’d have bin killed afore 
now. Besides, he always wur the chap fur luck. I 
remember how when he wur a liddle feller he slid into 
the pond, and we all thought he’d be drownded, but Jug- 
lery pulled him out, and his faather hided him nigh out 
of his skin. So doan’t you vrother, my dear, but kip in 
good heart fur the saake of the liddle ’un wot’s coming. 
Tom ull live to see un, I can promise you. He sims un- 
accountable young to have a baby, but reckon he’d be 
younger still to die.” 

2 

If that autumn was cruel to Thyrza in its torture of 
waxing hope it was crueller still to Nell in its torture of 
hope’s dying. For a week after the harvest she had 
lived in flowery fields of memory, pied with all bright 
colours. When she shut her eyes she could see his face 
bending close to hers over the shocked corn, his thin 
delicate hands moving among the straw, sliding close 
enough to hers for an accidental touch . . . she could 
feel them brush her neck as he helped her into his coat 
at the day’s end of prayer and storm. . . . 

For a week her heart drowsed in its own sweetness. 
Nell was happy, she grew gentler and kinder. She was 
no longer an ineffective little rebel, full of disgusts and 
grumbles — a delicious languor was upon her, a bright 
dimness which veiled all the jags and uglinesses of her 
life. During this week she did not see Mr. Poullett- 
Smith, but her mind rested sweetly in his memory. 
Perhaps the physical fatigue of the harvest, mixed with 
the natural inertia of her anaemic condition, both had a 
share in bringing about a certain passivity, or perhaps 
it was the change of her love from scourge to comfort 
which put an end to all her old restless efforts to see him, 
her making of opportunities, her fretting glances from 


f 


NELL 


215 


the schoolhouse window, her nervous strayings to church. 
Anyhow she did not see him till Sunday, when her 
glorious castle fell. 

He came into Sunday-school as usual, with a benedic- 
tory smile. Her memories of him in his open shirt, with 
his face all red and shining and his hair caked with sweat 
on his forehead, made her feel a little shocked to see him 
again in his long black cassock, above which his face 
showed waxy and white. Perhaps a touch of sunburn 
lingered, but the black of his priestly garment wiped it 
out. Who would have thought, said Nell to herself, that 
this day a week ago he had been toiling as a farmhand, 
with bare arms and throat, all baked and burnt and dirty 
and sweaty . . . ? 

He greeted the superintendent, and talked for a few 
moments at her desk ; then he came down among the 
teachers and their classes. Nell wore a white blouse and 
a big white hat like an ox-eyed daisy. Her book slid 
from her knee to the floor, and there was a scuffle among 
her children as Freddie Gurr from Hazard’s Green 
dropped the worm he had been nursing for comfort 
through the chills of his mediaeval Sunday ; but she did 
not hear as she half rose for her greeting, then sank back, 
as in the level, indifferent tones in which he had said 
“ Good morning, Miss Sinden — good morning, Miss Pix,” 
he said “ Good morning, Miss Beatup,” and passed on to 
“ Good morning, Miss Viner.” 

Nell’s heart constricted with pain. She told herself 
that she was a fool to be so sensitive, that it was not 
likely Mr. Poullett-Smith would greet her publicly in the 
manner of their harvest friendship. But she could get 
no comfort from her self-rebuke, for deep in herself she 
knew that she was wise. Doubtless there was no im- 
portance to be attached to the coldness of her friend’s 
greeting. Nevertheless, he had that morning, silently 


216 


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t 

and symbolically, declared the gulf between them. In 
the cornfield, working as her comrade, he had stood for 
a short while on her level — for the first time her efforts 
to attract him had been without handicap. But now the 
handicap was restored — he was the Priest-in-Charge of 
Brownbread Street, and she was the daughter of a 
drunken farmer. If for a few hours she had charmed 
him out of his eminent sense of fitness, the charm was 
over now. What had this dignified, cassocked ecclesi- 
astic to do with her, a poor little nobody? His friendli- 
ness during their common toil had been a mere passing 
emotion ; probably she had exaggerated it — even the little 
her memory held must be halved, and that poor remainder 
cancelled out by the probability that he had forgotten it. 

As a matter of fact the curate had not forgotten it, but 
the attraction had not been robust enough to survive the 
loss of its surroundings. He saw that he had been un- 
wise and rather unkind in yielding so easily to a mere 
temporary prepossession. His more solid affections had 
long been engaged elsewhere, and he spent some hours 
of real self-reproach for having ever so briefly faltered. 
He might have put ideas into the girl’s head — they had 
certainly been in his own. However, he reflected, there 
was not time to have done much harm, and he would set 
matters straight at once. So for the next month his be- 
haviour to Nell was unflaggingly cold and polite, and at 
the end of it all the parish was told of his engagement 
to Marian Lamb. 


3 

There were days of desolation for Nell Beatup that 
November. Her disappointment gripped her as a black 
frost grips the fields ; she felt powerless, bound, and 
sterile. Even the last month, when bit by bit her happy 
memories were destroyed, when she learned that all her 


NELL 


217 


hopes were built on an exaggeration, a mistake, even that 
month of slow disillusion had been better than this black 
month of despair. In October a few crumpled leaves had 
reddened the trees, a few pale draggled flowers had sweet- 
ened the garden, a bird had sometimes perched on the 
gable end and sung before he flew away. But now the 
fields were black and the woods were dun, the lanes were 
a poach of mud, and the smell of mud hung above field- 
gates and barns — a clammy mist rose from the ponds, 
making the air substantial with the taste of water . . . 
tears . . . they seemed to hang in the rainy clouds, to 
dribble from the trodden earth, and, mixed with the dead 
summer's dust, they made a grey slimy mud that sobbed 
and sucked under her feet on her daily trudge to school. 

The killing of her hope was no mercy. Even that sick 
thing had been better than this emptiness, this death. 
Hope had sustained her for years, for years she had had 
nothing more robust to feed on than her pale infatuation 
for a man who seldom gave her crumbs. She had become 
skilled in hoping, long practice made her an experienced 
artificer of hope, able to build a palace out of a few 
broken bricks. She had never known any other love 
than this ghost of one, so there had never been a chance 
of its dying of comparison. She had no intimate girl 
friends, and Ivy's full-blooded affairs struck her only 
with the grossness of their quality, giving her own by 
contrast a refinement and poetry that made it doubly 
precious. 

Then had come the wonderland of those harvest days, 
when hope had almost passed into confidence, when all 
the wonderful things of love she had never learned yet — 
glamour, pride, perfection, satisfaction — had shown her 
their burning shapes. But it had all been false, a mirage 
of that same hope’s sick intensity, an overreaching of 
the artificer's skill; and now her tears had turned to 


218 


THE FOUR ROADS 


mud the golden dust of harvest, and all her dreams were 
dead — and stuck to her still, clogging and fouling, like 
this mud of Slivericks Lane on her boots. 

Luckily, her daylong absence made it possible for her 
to hide her wretchedness from her family. At school her 
listlessness was commented on — a listlessness alternating 
with an increased nerviness and a tendency to cry when 
found fault with — but as Nell had always been a little 
languid and a little hysterical, these exaggerations of her 
natural state were put down to her health, and the school- 
mistress persuaded her to take a patent medicine con- 
taining iron. Her love affair had been conducted on 
such delicate lines that only a few had noticed it, and 
no one except Ivy had given it any importance. Ivy was 
intensely sorry for her sister, and on one Sunday’s visit 
dared to probe her state. But Nell was like a poor little 
cat caught by the tail, and could only scratch and spit, 
so Ivy good-naturedly gave up the effort. She was quite 
her old self again, judging by the “ pals ” she brought 
over to Worge on her Sundays off — Motorman Hodder 
and Motorman Davis, and Sergeant Staples, and Private 
La Have, and Corporal Bunch of the Moose Jaws, and 
other Canadians quartered at Hastings, who sat in the 
kitchen, saying, “ Sure ” and “ Yep ” and “ Nope.” 

“ Reckon it's kill or cure wud you,” said Mrs. Beatup, 
and no one knew precisely what she meant. 

Nell thought her worst moment would be when she de- 
livered to Mr. Poullett-Smith the pretty little speech she 
had been making up ever since she heard of his engage- 
ment. It was fairly bad, for Marian Lamb was with him 
and had already assumed a galliard air of proprietorship. 

“ Thank you so much, Miss Beatup — it’s awfully kind 
of you. Yes, I’m awfully happy, and ” — coyly — “ I hope 
Harry is too. But we mustn’t stop any more — Harry has 
still the remains of his cold. Do turn up your collar, you 
naughty boy.” 


NELL 


219 


Nell walked away rigid with contempt. “ She's silly 
and she’s vulgar — she’s vulgarer than I, for all I’m only a 
farmer’s daughter. ‘Naughty boy!’ — how common! 
She’s worse than Ivy.” 

Miss Marian gave up her Red Cross work, and was 
seen going for long walks with her Harry, and accom- 
panying him on his parish rounds. She was a big, un- 
gainly, soapily clean female, with a certain uncouth girl-" 
ishness which did not endear her to the curate’s flock. 
Nell could not imagine what he “ saw in her ” — she cer- 
tainly did not read the Sermons of St. Gregory. She 
wondered if he had loved her long — the parish said 
“years,” but that he had been unable to propose (i) till 
an expected legacy arrived, (2) till Miss Marian was sure 
she could get nobody else. At all events, he must have 
been in love with her during those days of Nell’s mirage — 
it was another bitter realisation for her to swallow, an- 
other choking mouthful of humble-pie. 

The poor little teacher crept about forlornly. She had 
not officially given up her Sunday-school class, but she 
seized flimsy pretexts to keep away; she even sometimes 
stayed away from church — then would force herself to 
go thrice of a Sunday, in case her absence should be put 
down to its true cause. She dodged the curate and 
Marian in the lanes, but she seemed to run into them at 
every corner — they always seemed to be going by the 
schoolhouse window. One evening, as she passed Mr. 
Smith’s cottage by the church, she saw the firelight leap- 
ing in his uncurtained study, and two dark figures stoop- 
ing together against the glow. She stopped and stared in, 
like a beggar watching a feast ; the table was laid for tea, 
and there were his books and his pictures, all ruddy in 
the firelight, the flickering, shuttled walls of the little 
room in which she had never set foot — his home. Marian 
was there ; she would pour out his tea and hand him his 
cup. She would say, “ Eat some more, dear ; you’ve had 



220 


THE FOUR ROADS 


a tiring day.” Then she would make him lie back in his 
armchair and put his feet to the fire, and she would curl 
up at his feet and read him the Sermons of St. Gregory. 
. . . No, she wouldn’t do anything like this. Nell 
laughed — that woman was Nell, not Marian. She was 
putting herself where she wanted to be, in the other’s 
place. Marian would say, “ Don’t eat all the cake, 
naughty boy.” And then she would go and sit on his 
knee. Ugh! . . . And Nell, who would have done so 
differently, stood outside in the November dusk, with 
tears and rain on her face, and little cold, red hands 
clenched in impotent longing. 

4 

At the end of November the bells rang for the advance 
at Cambrai — old Dallington tower rocked with its chimes, 
and even the little tin clapper at Brownbread Street 
tinkled away for an hour or more. Mr. Poullett-Smith 
and his organist spent half a dozen evenings trying to 
make a dodging choir face a Solemn Te Deum approved 
by the Gregorian Society. Unluckily, the singers who 
would have easily blustered through Stainer in F or 
Martin in C, grew hang-dog and discouraged in the knots 
of Tones and Mediations, so that by the time the Te 
Deum was ready, Bourlon Wood had been evacuated by 
the British and the victory of Cambrai became something 
perilously near a fiasco. Fortunately the capture of Jeru- 
salem soon afterwards saved the Te Deum from being 
wasted. 

These alternating victories and disasters were very bad 
for Mus’ Beatup, for he celebrated them all in the same 
way at the Rifle Volunteer. The only difference was that 
from some obscure sport of habit he celebrated a victory 
in gin and a defeat in whisky. He was very bad after 
both aspects of Cambrai, and Jerusalem brought him to 
ruin. 


NELL 


221 


Soon after nine there was a loud knocking at the back 
door, rousing all the Beatups who had fallen asleep in the 
kitchen. Nell was asleep because she always seemed to 
be tired and drowsy now, Mrs. Beatup was asleep be- 
cause she reckoned she wouldn’t have much of a night 
with Maaster, Zacky and Harry were asleep on the floor 
in front of the fire, curled up together like puppies — 
Zacky because it was long past the time he ought to have 
been in bed, Harry because he had had a hard day 
ploughing the clays. There was great confusion and 
rubbing of eyes, and the knock was repeated. 

“ Go and see who it is, Nell,” said Mrs. Beatup. 
“ Harry, I dreamt as we wur being bombed by Zepper- 
lians like the folk at Pett.” 

“ I dreamt of naun — I’m going to sleep agaun.” 

He dropped his head back against Zacky — and just 
at that moment Nell reappeared in the doorway, with a 
terrified face. 

“Mother — it’s father; he’s been hurt. ...” 

“ Hurt ! — you mean killed. ...” 

“ I don’t — I mean hurt. There’s a man with him, 
helping him in.” 

“ I’m a-going,” and Mrs. Beatup seized the lamp and 
waddled out, followed by her scared and sleepy off- 
spring. 

In the passage a big soldier was propping up a Mus’ 
Beatup who looked as if he was stuffed with sawdust. 

“ He’s had a bit of a fall,” said the soldier as he 
staggered under his burden. “ I was seeing him home 
like, and he slipped in the yard.” 

“ I reckon every boan in his body’s bruk,” said Mrs. 
Beatup — “ that’s how he looks, surelye. Let him sit 
down, poor soul.” 

Mus’ Beatup slid through the soldier’s arms to a sitting 
posture on the floor. Harry pushed forward and offered 
to help carry him into the kitchen. 


222 


THE FOUR ROADS 


“ Someone ud better go fur a doctor/’ said the escort. 
“ I don’t like the look of him.” 

Mrs. Beatup held the lamp to her husband’s face, and 
Harry at the same time recognised the soldier as the 
eldest Kadwell from Stilliands Tower — not he who had 
loved and ridden away from Jen Hollowbone, but an- 
other brother in the Engineers. Mus’ Beatup’s eyes were 
open and dazed, his mouth was open and dribbling, and 
his limbs were dangling forlornly. When they tried 
to pick him up, they found that his right leg was 
broken. 

“ Zacky — run up to Dallington and fetch Dr. Styles 
this wunst,” ordered Harry. “ Tell him it’s a broken leg 
— he’ll have to bring summat to mend it with.” 

Zacky ran off agog, and Nell, who had been through 
a first-aid course in the early days of her rivalry with 
Marian Lamb, forced herself to swallow her repulsion 
of the drunken, stricken figure on the passage floor, and 
come forward with advice. 

“ He ought to be put to bed at once ... he might 
collapse.” 

“ He’s collapsed,” said Mrs. Beatup in the indifferent 
voice of shock. 

“ But he must be kept warm — I’ll heat a brick in the 
oven. Harry, you and Mr. ” 

“ — Kadwell,” put in the soldier, with a bold look into 
Nell’s eyes. 

“ Mr. Kadwell — please carry him up to bed. Can you 
manage him up the stairs? ” 

“ Reckon we’ll have to,” said Harry. “ Stand clear, 
mother. . . . Got his shoulders, Mus’ Kadwell? — I’ll 
taake his legs.” 

They had a dead weight to carry to the upper floor, 
but Harry, though short, was a strong, stuggy little chap, 
and Steve Kadwell was enormous. He stood four inches 


NELL 


223 


over six foot and was proportionately hullish of girth. 
He was a handsome man, too — as he passed Nell, she 
noticed his brawny neck and great rolling quiff of fair, 
curly hair; she also noticed that he looked at her in a 
way no other man had done. The lamplight fell becom- 
ingly on her pretty scared face, and suggested with soft 
orange lights and melting shadows the curves of her little 
breast. At first she was pleased by his frank admiration, 
then something in it made her feel ashamed, and she 
drew back angrily into the shadow. 

5 

Nell had to stop away from school till the end of the 
term, for Mrs. Beatup could not possibly nurse her hus- 
band without help; indeed, Nell’s help was often not 
enough. A broken leg in itself was serious damage for 
a man of Mus’ Beatup’s age and habits, and into the 
bargain his alcoholic deprivations brought on an attack 
of delirium tremens about the fifth day of his illness. 
For this both Nell and her mother were inadequate — 
Nell was sickened and terrified by this horrible travesty 
of a human being that shook the springs in her father’s 
bed, and Mrs. Beatup made him worse by trying to argue 
with him and taking as a personal affront his assertions 
as to the maggoty condition of the pillows. Harry had to 
spend two days away from the fields in the combined 
office of nurse and policeman, and on one occasion when 
even his strength was not enough to keep Mus’ Beatup in 
bed, Kadwell of Stilliands Tower prolonged an evening’s 
call of enquiry till the next morning. 

Young Kadwell often called to enquire, and made him- 
self useful in various ways. He was on a fortnight’s sick- 
leave, after an outbreak of his old wound. He had 
been sniped during some patrol work at Loos in 1915, 


224 


THE FOUR ROADS 


and though once more fit for service had been kept in 
England ever since. At present he was quartered at 
Eastbourne, but expected soon to be sent back to 
France. 

At first Nell was too harassed and miserable to realise 
that his visits were largely on her account. Moreover, 
she was sexually very humble — she had loved so long 
without return that she had never learned to look for 
advances. But Kadwell had no reason to hide his feel- 
ings, nor any skill if he had had reason, so in time Nell 
was bound to become aware of them. The discovery did 
not give her any great pleasure — the faint pride she oc- 
casionally felt at his notice was always dangerously on 
the edge of disgust. She was sensitive throughout her 
being to his coarseness — which at the same time had 
curious, intermittent powers of attraction — and there was 
something in his bold, appraising look which struck her 
with shame ; with his tastes, thoughts and appetites she 
had nothing in common. She avoided him as much as 
she could, feeling guilty because of the faint thrills which 
occasionally mixed with her dislike. 

It was a sad year’s ending. Her confinement in the 
house dragged down even further her health and spirits, 
her father’s sick-bed filled her with wretchedness and 
shame. It seemed to preach to her the lesson of what 
she really was, in spite of all her dreams. How had 
she ever dared to plot for the greatness of the curate’s 
love? Who was she to mate with a priest, a scholar, 
a gentleman? The sordid grind of her day, shut up 
in the muddle of Worge, her hours in that sag-roofed, 
stuffy bedroom, nursing her father through the triviali- 
ties and degradations of an illness brought on and intensi- 
fied by drink — and then the crowning irony of an 
occasional "parish visit” from her loved one, his polite 
enquiries, his parsonic sympathy — all seemed to shout at 


NELL 


225 


ner that she was nothing but a common girl, not only of 
humble but of shameful heritage, an obscure, half-edu- 
cated nobody, who was now bearing the punishment of 
her presumptuous hopes. 

She gave up her Sunday-school class, making her 
father’s illness an excuse ; she also gave up going to 
church. This was partly due to lack of time, partly to 
a dread of the empty shell. She told herself bitterly 
that her religion had never been real — it had only been 
part of the mirage — she might as well give up the pre- 
tence of it. Besides, she could not bear to look any more 
on the background of her vanished dreams, the soft 
colours and lights against which they had glowed, to hear 
the sighing tones which had set them to music in her heart. 

One Sunday evening, when she had gone out to stretch 
her cramped legs, she heard the sound of singing come 
from the Bethel. She had never been inside except for 
Tom’s marriage, but now in a sudden softening of her 
heart she thought she would go in. She opened the door, 
and slid into an empty pew — of which there was a big 
choice. Mr. Sumption stood swaying and beating time 
in the pulpit, while before him his mean congregation of 
Bourners and Hubbles sang — 

4t A •* * v> ♦ i \ - f «*».♦> t * * * f : t ' 

“ Let Christian faith and hope dispel 
The signs of guilt and woe ”... 

The air was heavy with the smell of lamp oil and 
Sunday clothes and the rot of the plaster walls. Nell 
sat, a little timid, in the corner of her pew. The scene 
was strange and grotesque to her, yet rather kindly. 
She thought Mr. Sumption looked ill and worn. She 
was shocked at his haggard smile, at the unhealthy 
smouldering of his eyes. . . . All Sunday Street knew 
that he was in trouble again about Jerry, who had not 
written for two months; but the village had come to 


226 


THE FOUR ROADS 


look upon it as Mr. Sumption’s natural state to be in 
trouble about his son, and Nell felt there must be some- 
thing worse than usual to account for his altered looks. 
Her own sadness made her soft and gentle towards him, 
and she watched him with pitying eyes. 

The service ended, and Mr. Sumption came down to 
the chapel door, where he waited to shake hands with 
his departing congregation. Nell, with her ignorance of 
chapel ritual, had not expected this, and was a little 
flustered by it. Now he must inevitably know of her 
presence, which she had not meant. But there was no 
help for it, so she held out her hand in her gentle, well- 
bred manner as she passed him in the doorway. He gave 
a start of surprise. 

“ I never expected to see you here,” he said. 

“ I was passing . . . and I thought the music sounded 
pretty ... so I came in,” faltered Nell. 

“Yes — the music’s pretty,” he said absently, and she 
thought his voice sounded hoarse as if from a recent cold. 
Then her eyes met his, and each seemed to read the 
other’s pain. Drawn together bv a mystic community of 
suffering, they stood for a moment in silence, still holding 
hands. She felt his grip tighten on hers, and her throat 
suddenly swelled with tears. They blinded her as she 
went out into the dusk. 

6 

Shortly before Christmas Mrs. Beatup decided that 
Steve Kadwell had “ intentions.” He was now back at 
Eastbourne, but came over to Worge every Sunday, and 
after little more than half an hour beside a crushed and 
plaintive Mus’ Beatup would sit in the kitchen till it was 
time to go home. 

“ Never shows the end of his nose to ’em at Stilliands 
Tower,” said Mrs. Beatup. “ Reckon thur’s someone 
here he liks better.” 


NELL 




227 


“ Do you mean me? ” asked Nell wearily. 

“ Well, I doan’t mean me — and I doan’t mean that 
trug-faaced lump of an Ellen, so I reckon it’s you. You 
needn’t look so black at me, Nell — thur’s no harm in a 
maid getting wed. I’d bin wed a year at your age, 
surelye, and three month gone wud my fust child — the 
one that never opened his eyes on day.” 

“ Did father always drink? ” 

“ Always a bit more or less — naun very lamentable 
— just here a little and there a little, as the Bible says. 
He’s got wuss this last few year. It’s that hemmed war.” 

“ You and father aren’t a very good advertisement for 
marriage.” 

Mrs. Beatup was huffed. 

“ I dunno wot you want — here we are three years 
past our silver wedding, and five strong children still 
alive. It aun’t the fault of his marriage he’s bruk his 
leg — he might have done it single, and you cud say the 
saum of his drinking too.” 

Further argument was prevented by the arrival of 
Steve Kadwell on his Sunday visit. Nell, who had been 
a little excited bv her mother’s remarks, received him 
with more friendliness than usual. Certainly he was a 
very personable man — better-looking even than Ivy’s Cor- 
poral Seagrim, and younger. The grip of his huge hand 
gave her an extraordinary sense of well-being and self- 
confidence, and the flush which always came while his 
eyes appraised her was this time half pleasurable. She 
fidgeted a good deal while he was upstairs. 

His conversational powers were not great, and she suf- 
fered a reaction of boredom during tea, which she and 
her mother had ready for him when he came down. He 
ate enormously and not very elegantly, though he was 
not entirely a bumpkin — for he had spent an occasional 
leave in London, “ having a good time,” he told her with 
a wink. He talked a good deal about himself and various 



228 THE FOUR ROADS 

men in his platoon, whose dull doings and sayings he 
related in detail. Nell lost her new friendliness, and as 
soon as tea was over went out to feed the chickens and 
shut them up for the night. 

She went into the barn to mix the feed. The sun had 
just set and there was a reddish dusk, through which 
she groped for the binns. She was kneading a paste 
with middlings, bran and barley-meal, when she heard 
a footstep on the frosty stones of the yard, and the 
next minute the barn grew quite dark as a man blocked 
the doorway. 

“ Your mother said I cud come and help you.” 

Nell felt somehow a little frightened. 

“ I’m all right.” 

“ Reckon you are ” — he came into the barn. “ You're 
fine,” and he stooped down to her, she felt his breath 
fanning her neck. Her hands ceased to move in the paste, 
and suddenly she began to tremble. 

She tried to save herself with a small, faltering 
remark about the chicken-food — “ Reckon soon we’ll have 
to do without the meal.” 

He did not answer, but stooped closer still, so that 
she could smell him, his virile smell of hair and leather 
and tobacco. Then she suddenly snatched her hands 
out of the trug, all clogged and sticky with paste and 
meal, and tried to push him away. 

“ Don’t . . . don’t. ...” 

“ Nellie — you’re not afraid of me? ” 

“ Please let me go ” — for his arms were round her 
now. 

“ Not now I’ve got you, little kid. . . . I’m just- 
about going to keep you till I know what you’re made 
of.” 

He laughed, and her struggling passed suddenly into 
weakness. 


NELL 


229 


Then his mouth pressed down on hers, and Nell, who 
had till that moment known nothing but the bodiless 
spirit of love, suddenly met him in the power of his fierce 
body. The contact seemed to break her. She lay back 
helpless in Kadwell’s arms, unable to stir or resist till 
he let her go, and he did not let her go till he seemed to 
have drawn all the life out of her in a long kiss — all the 
hoard of fire and sweetness which she had kept long 
years for another man he drew out of her with his lips 
and took for his own. 

Then he released her, and she fell back against the 
binns, gasping a little, and crying, while her eyes strained 
to him through the dusk. She seemed unable to move, 
and he pointed to the bowl of chicken-food on the floor, 
saying, “ Pick up that trug and come out.” 

She did as he told her, and went out meekly at his 
heels. 

7 

Kadwell looked on Nell as a conquered kingdom. She 
herself was not so sure, for after he had gone home that 
night, her flagging powers revived, and she had a week 
in which to recruit her forces. During that week she 
passed through moments of sick revulsion from him, in 
which his strength and roughness disgusted her. But 
when he came again, she found herself powerless as she 
had been before. 

He had strong allies. Nell was lonely, friendless, 
humbled to the dust; she was at the same time reacting 
from her former intellectual and ecclesiastical influences. 
His love helped restore her self-respect and his out- 
stretched arms were rightly placed to catch her as the 
pendulum swung her away from her old tastes and 
glories. Nell found herself for the first time the inter- 
esting member of the family — at least in her mother’s 


230 


THE FOUR ROADS 


eyes. She was the courted, the beloved — even if hand 
in hand with love came strange tyrannies — and her sud- 
den change to exaltation from degradation turned her 
head a little. 

Sometimes there were hours when she saw clearly, 
saw that Kadwell was impossible as her mate, that they 
had nothing in common, that not even his passion was 
really acceptable to her. . . . He was a coarse brute, 
who would always trample on her tastes and wishes and 
ignore her mind and soul — and in these hours she knew 
that it was her mind and soul which counted most, in 
spite of the newly-awakened body. She was not really 
of a passionate nature, only a little drugged. She was 
doping herself with Steve so that she might forget the 
anguish and humiliation of the past autumn. 

But this clearness did not last long, and it was always 
fogged in the same way — by a sense of her own un- 
worthiness. She told herself that she was wicked to 
despise Steve, who was much better than she in his 
different way. He might be uneducated, coarse, and 
self-willed, but he was strong and brave and resolute, 
all the things that she was not — “ And I say unto you, 
despise not one of these little ones, for their angels do 
always behold the face of my Father which is in 
heaven.” . . . 

Then she would remember his wound, which he had 
got fighting for her and England over at Loos, and in 
the depths of that self-contempt which was so often with 
her now, alternating with her moods of self-confidence, 
she acknowledged that she had done nothing for the War. 
Though she had always prided herself on being more 
patriotic than the rest of her family, she had done far 
less than they — less than Tom, who had gone to fight, 
even if ignorant and unwilling ; less than Harry, who had 
boldly flung down his challenge to the earth and taken up 


NELL 


231 


arms against her for his country’s sake; less than Ivy, 
who was cheerfully and competently filling a man’s place 
and doing a man’s work ; less than her mother, who had 
borne these children for her country’s need ; less even 
than her father, who paid rates and taxes and cultivated 
the ground. The fact that they were all, except perhaps 
Harry, more or less unconscious of their service, only 
made her reproach greater. She of her knowledge had 
done nothing, and they of their ignorance had done much. 
Who was she to despise them or Kadwell? Should she 
not take this chance to do the little she could by bring- 
ing comfort and happiness into a soldier’s life? She 
knew all the difference that Thyrza had made to Tom 
— let her do the same for Steve, humbly, simply, con- 
scious of her failure up till now. 

Early in the New Year Bill Putland suddenly came 
home on leave, and still more suddenly married a be- 
wildered and delighted Polly Sinden. They had not even 
been definitely engaged ; she had not known he was com- 
ing home till she got his telegram, fixing not only the date 
of his arrival but the date of the wedding. They were 
married at Brownbread Street, by an elderly clergyman 
who was taking the curate’s place during his honeymoon 
— Mr. Poullett-Smith had been married up at Dallington, 
and the joyful clash of his wedding chimes came to Nell 
as she sat with Steve in the sun-slatted murk of the Dutch 
barn, and made her more than usually submissive to his 
caresses. 

Ivy, delighted at her friend’s good luck, forgave a long 
coldness, and came to Polly’s marriage. She brought 
with her Sergeant Staples, and after the ceremony took 
him to Worge for tea. 

Mrs. Beatup had not been to the wedding, for Thyrza’s 
illness had begun, and her mother-in-law had spent most 
of the afternoon down at the Shop. 


232 


THE FOUR ROADS 


“ Oh, she’s doing valiant,” she said in answer to their 
enquiries, “ but ’tis unaccountable hard on a girl to be 
wudout her husband at such a time. ...” 

“ Where’s Nell? ” asked Ivy. 

“ Up wild her father, surelye. He’s bin easier to-day, 
but he’s a tedious cross oald man these times. You’d 
never think the pacerfist and objectious conscience he’s 
got lying in bed and reading the paapers and wanting 
things to eat and drink as he can’t git — reckon he’d stop 
the War to-morrow for a bit of cheese.” 

“ Kadwell bin here any more? ” 

“ Reckon he never misses — it’ll be Nell’s turn next after 
Polly. You’d best maake haste, Ivy Beatup, or at the 
raate we’re going, you’ll be the only oald maid left in 
the parish.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ” laughed Ivy, with her mouth full of bread. 

“ But Nell ull be a fool if she marries him,” she added 
seriously. “ He aun’t her kind. I know him, and he’s 
a bit of a swine, I reckon.” 

“ Reckon he’s a valiant, stout chap, and Nell ull be 
a fool if she says no.” 

Ivy did not argue the matter, but before she went 
away she made an opportunity to speak to her sister 
alone. 

“ Nell, you haven’t promised Steve Kadwell? ” 

Nell did not answer for a moment — she looked dazed. 
Then she said slowly : 

“ Yes — I promised him on Sunday.” 

“ Then write and tell him you’ve changed your mind.” 

“Why?” 

“ Because you’re a fool. You know quite well he aun’t 
the chap for you — you, wud all your liddle dentical 
ways ! ” 

The tears came into Nell’s eyes. 

“ I love him.” 


NELL - 233 

Ivy stared critically at her. She seemed to have 
altered. 

“ Have you told mother ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ When are you going to be married ? ” 

“ I dunno — we haven’t talked about it yet.” 

“ Well, doan’t be in a hurry — give him a good think 
over.” 

She had no time to say more, and realised that there 
was not much more to be said. Nell seemed dazed and 
foolish, like a pilgrim lost in a strange land. 

8 

Sunday Street was dazzled by its multitude of mar- 
riages. There had been Tom Beatup’s, not a year ago, 
then the curate’s, and Polly Sinden’s, on the top of each 
other in January, and now, in February, Nell Beatup’s. 
The last was a surprise ; who would have thought, asked 
the village, that Nell would be married before Ivy? One 
or two mothers improved their daughters’ minds with the 
moral of demure, gentle Nell’s marrying before her sister 
with her loud, friendly ways. There was some jealousy, 
too, for Kadwell, heir of Stilliands Tower, was considered 
a good match, though a certain amount of suspicion at- 
tached locally to his morals, due to his having once spent 
a leave in Paris. 

Nell’s wedding was a shorn affair. Her father was, 
of course, unable to come and give her away, and she 
had to go up the aisle on the arm of a shuffling and 
miserable Harry, to be finally disposed of by Mrs. Beatup, 
who was full of doubts as to the legality of a marriage 
thus officiated. Ivy could not get another day off, so had 
been obliged to content herself with sending Nell a silver- 
plated cruet and a rather tactless message to “ come to 


234 


THE FOUR ROADS 


her if ever she felt things going a bit wrong.” Thyrza 
was not present, either. She had mended slowly, in spite 
of the joy of her little son, and felt unequal to the fag 
and excitement of a wedding, either socially or ecclesiasti- 
cally. The gaps were completed by the absence of Mr. 
Poullett-Smith, who was still away on his honeymoon. 
He was expected back next week, and it was considered 
locally that Nell and Kadwell would have shown a more 
becoming spirit if they had waited for his ministrations. 
No one guessed that it was just this chance of being 
married in the curate’s absence which had finally dropped 
the balance, and made Nell give way to her lover’s en- 
treaties and make him happy at once. 

After the ceremony there was a breakfast at Worge, 
and that too was shorn. There had been no Ivy to help 
Mrs. Beatup with the cooking, and trug-faced Ellen had 
burnt the cake, which was not only sugarless, as Tom’s 
had been, but without peel or plums. “ Might as well eat 
bread and call it caake,” said Mrs. Beatup drearily. 
“ They both taaste lik calf-meal.” 

There was no butter, as butter did not pay at its 
present price, and was no longer made at Worge. Some 
greenish margarine had been Ellen’s reward for standing 
two hours outside the grocer’s in Senlac, but the cake 
had swallowed it all up, and wanted more, judging by its 
splintering behaviour under the teeth. To balance these 
scarcities there was tinned salmon and tinned crab and 
tinned lobster — also two bottles of wine, left over from 
Tom’s wedding, and watered to make them go further. 

“ This is wot you might call a War wedding,” said 
Mrs. Beatup. “ Nell, I’m unaccountable glad you got 
married in church — if it had bin a chapel marriage on 
the top of this ” — and she waved her hand over the table 
— “ I’d never quite feel as you wur praaperly wed.” 

As a further counterblast to irregularity she had in- 


NELL 


235 













sisted on Nell's being married in white satin, with a stiff 
white veil like a meat-safe bound over her hair with a 
wreath of artificial orange-blossom. She looked very 
pretty, with a becoming flush in the thick pallor of her 
skin. Her eyes were bright and restless, and she breathed 
quickly, so that her little pearl-and-turquoise locket, “ the 
gift of the bridegroom," heaved under her transparencies 
— she was too shrinking and modest to have her gown cut 
low — like a shallop on a wave. She scarcely spoke during 
the meal, but sat twisting her wedding-ring and staring at 
her husband — following each movement with her eyes, 
apparently unable to look away from him. 

The meal was not lively; it lacked Ivy’s good-humour, 
Mus’ Beatup’s talkativeness, Bill Putland’s wit, Mr. 
Sumption’s big laugh and childish enjoyment of his food. 
The party consisted only of the two families — Beatups 
and Kadwells. Old Mus’ Kadwell droned about the 
War, and the “ drore ’’ in which he prophesied it would 
end, Mrs. Kadwell compared with Mrs. Beatup a day’s 
adventures in search of meat, Lizzie Kadwell tried to 
flirt with Harry, who was overwhelmed with shame and 
annoyance at her efforts, and Sim Kadwell, who had been 
best man, gave wearying details of the Indispensable’s 
Progress from tribunal to tribunal. 

Steve Kadwell could get only a week-end’s leave, so 
the honeymoon would be short, and afterwards Nell 
would came back to Worge, and live there as before, 
except for her “ teachering,” which her husband had 
made her give up, so that she might be at hand when 
he wanted her, free to go with him on any unexpected 
leave. He would have longer leave given him soon, he 
promised her, and they would go to London and have 
a valiant time. On this occasion they were going no 
further that Brighton, but they would stay at a fine hotel 
and have late dinner and a fire in their bedroom. 


236 


THE FOUR ROADS 


Nell drove away with her hand limp and rather cold 
in Kadwell’s big fondling clasp. The pale February sun 
slanted to Worge’s roof from the west, and a clammy, 
mould-flavoured mist hung over the hedges, like the 
winter ghost of those fogs which had webbed the farm 
with dusty gold in harvest-time. Nell looked back at 
the old house and the fields behind it — since she was 
leaving home only for two days, it was queer to feel 
that she was leaving it for ever. 

9 

It was raining and foggy when she came back. Thick 
white muffles of cloud drifted up the fields, and hung 
between the hedges, catching and choking all sound. Rain 
fell noiselessly, almost invisibly, apparent only in an 
occasional whorl, in the dripping eaves of the stacks, the 
shining roofs of the barns, and the whiteness of the 
beaded grass. Nell came from Hailsham station in a 
cab — her husband had told her to do so, giving her paper 
money for the fare. He certainly was princely in his 
ideas of spending, and there were loud and envious ex- 
clamations at Worge when, instead of the soaked and 
huddled figure expected, Nell appeared bone-dry, with- 
out even her umbrella unfurled. 

“ A cab from Hailsham ! ” cried Mrs. Beatup. 
“ Reckon you’ve got a good husband.” 

“ And did you have the fire in your bedroom ? ” asked 
Zacky. 

“ Yes,” said Nell. “ A shilling every night.” 

She kissed her mother and brothers, and Ivy, who 
was over for the day and now came out of the kitchen, 
with a bear’s hug for her sister. 

“ You’ve got a new hat ! ” she exclaimed. 

“ Yes ; Steve saw it in a shop in Brighton and bought 
it for me.” 


















NELL 237 

“ Lork ! ” cried Mrs. Beatup. 

“ But it aun’t your usual style,” said Ivy ; “ you most- 
ways wear ’em more quiet-like. I’ve seen many of that 
sort of hat come on the tram, and it’s generally what the 
boys call a tart.” 

Nell flushed and looked away. 

“ We’ve got Thyrza here,” said Mrs. Beatup. “ She 
came up this morning afore the rain started, and we’re 
kipping her till it’s a done — fust time she’s bin out, and 
I’m justabout fritted lest she taakes cold.” 

“ Has she got the baby with her? ” 

“ Surelye. . . . Here’s Nell, Thyrza, come up in a cab 
from the station, and her husband’s guv her a new hat.” 
Thyrza’s eyes opened big in wonder. She sat by the 
fire, with her child in her arms ; she was pale, but seemed 
plump and healthy, and her eyes had an eager, yearning 
look which was new to them. Nell kissed her and the 
baby, and sat down by the hearth with a little shiver. 

“ I’ll git you some hot tea in a minnut,” said her 
mother, “ and then I’ll tell you a surprise about 
Ivy.” 

“ Adone do, mother — you’ve half toald her now.” 

“ I haven’t — I only said it wur a surprise, which I 
reckon it aun’t much of, since you’ve near married three 
men in the last twelvemonth.” 

Ivy groaned — “ Reckon your tongue’s lik a bruk 
wurzel-cutter — slipping all over the plaace. Well, Nell, 
you know it now — but guess who he is.” 

This was more difficult, as there were at least half a 
dozen possible claimants, and Nell restored the secret 
to a little of its lost glory by guessing wrong several 
times. 

“ It’s Eric Staples,” said Ivy at last, “ and we’re going 
out to Canada soon as ever he gits his discharge, which 
woan’t be long now. He wur wounded and gassed at 


238 


THE FOUR ROADS 


Vimy, but he’s a stout feller still, and has got a liddle 
farm in Saskatchewan wot me and him ull kip the two 
of us. He says I’m the woman born for a colonial’s 
wife.” 

“ Reckon you are,” said her mother fondly, “ but I wish 
you cud have got a husband wot took you to hotels and 
guv you cab-rides and fine hats like Nell.” 

“ I aun’t the girl fur hotels and cabs — reckon I’m only 
the girl for washing the pots and scrubbing the floor, and 
lucky that’s the girl Eric wants. I’d never do wud 
Nell’s life — she’s a lady ...” and she squeezed her 
sister’s hand. 

Nell gave a faint squeeze in response. She was 
touched by Ivy’s affection, at the same time it made her 
feel a little cold, for she guessed the reason ; Ivy was* 
only saying without words, “ I’m standing by you, Nell 
— you’ve done a stupid thing, and nobody knows it but 
you and I. Howsumdever you can always come wud any 
trouble to old Ivy.” 

Tea was now on the table, with the remains of the 
wedding-cake. Mus’ Beatup was asleep upstairs, so it 
was arranged that later on Nell should take him up his 
tea and pay him her dutiful greetings. Harry and Zacky 
came in very grubby after handling roots. Harry was 
now a pitiless tyrant who drove and slaved his brother 
out of school hours, making him dig and rake and cart 
and dung; for the unthinkable thing of a year ago had 
happened, and the War was dragging on towards Harry’s 
eighteenth birthday, threatening to move his battle fronts 
from the furrows and ditches of Sussex to the blasted 
fields of France. 

Thyrza had a letter from Tom, which she read to the 
company, every now and then stopping to hum over some 
passage which for obviously pleasant reasons could not 
be read out loud. 


NELL 239 

“ To think he’s never seen his baby,” she murmured, 
bending towards her crooked arm. 

“ To think of Tom ever having a baby to see,” said 
Mrs. Beatup — “ and you’d know he wur Tom’s by his 
flat nose.” 

“ Wot have you settled to call him? ” asked Ivy. “ Is 
it still Thomas Edward? ” 

“ No, it’s to be Thomas William, fur Bill Putland has 
promised to stand godfather.” 

“ I doan’t lik William as much as Edward. Wot 
maade you change, Thyrza ? ” 

“ Tom wants him called after his best pal, surelye.” 

“ And after the Kayser, too — William’s the Kayser’s 
naum.” 

Thyrza looked shocked. 

“ You’ll have to call him Bill fur short.” 

“ That ud sound more like the Kayser than ever — I 
always call the Kayser Bill.” 

“ Then call him Willie.” 

“ That’s the young Kayser, and Tom when he fixed 
William said as he must never shorten it to Willie, ’cos 
there’s a kind of shell called Little Willie, and he says as 
if, when peace comes and he gits hoame, fulks wur to 
say, ‘ Here comes Little Willie/ he’d chuck himself down 
in the lane and start digging himself in — Ha! ha! ” and 
Thyrza laughed at the joke, and tickled the baby to make 
it laugh too, which it didn’t. 

“ Reckon he’s too young to laugh,” said Mrs. Beatup. 

“ He aun’t too young to cry.” 

“ We’re none of us too young fur that, nor too oald, 
nuther.” 

Thyrza sighed gently — 

“ I’m unaccountable set on Tom’s coming fur the 
christening — and Passon’s been wanting to christen him ; 
he asked me at the churching. I thought maybe Tom cud 



240 THE FOUR ROADS 

git leave to see his baby christened, but seemingly he 
can’t.” 

“ They’re unaccountable short wud leave,” said Mrs. 
Beatup. “ Steve couldn’t git more’n three days to git 
married in.” 

“ But reckon he’ll git some more later, woan’t he, 
Nell ? ” 

Nell started — during the little womanly talk her mind 
had gone off on questionings of its own. 

“Leave? Yes. He’s sure to get a week before he 
goes out to France.” 

“ You’re unaccountable lucky. Reckon he’ll taake you 
to another hotel and buy you another hat.” 

“ And send you home in another cab.” 

“ I’ll go up and have a look at father,” said Nell. 

There was silence in the kitchen for a little while after 
she went. Harry and Zacky had gone back to their 
digging, and Ivy and Mrs. Beatup sat squatting against 
Thyrza’s lap, where the baby lay more helpless than a 
day-old kitten. 

“ Nell’s middling quiet,” said her mother at last. 

“ She’s sad at having said good-bye to Steve,” sighed 
Thyrza. 

“ I doan’t waonder as she’s vrothered,” said Mrs. 
Beatup. “ Courted, cried, and married, all in a huddle 
lik that. Ivy, I hope as this ull be a lesson to you, and 
you’ll bide your banns praaperly and buy your bits of 
things in more’n one day’s shopping. Pore Nell, she sims 
all swummy and of a daze, and I doan’t woander, nuther, 
wud all the hurriment thur’s bin. Reckon she scarce 
knows yit if she’s maid or wife.” 

“ Reckon she does,” said Ivy. 


PART VI : BABY 


T OM did not come home till March, and the baby 
had been christened before he arrived, Thyrza hav- 
ing proved too soft to resist ecclesiastical pressure. 
But her husband was not so disappointed as she had 
feared. Indeed, Tom’s whole attitude towards the 
miracle she had wrought in his absence puzzled her a 
little. 

She had met him at the cottage door with the baby in 
her arms, and after their first greeting he had said: 

“ Put the baby down, Thyrza. I can’t kiss you 
praaperly.” Then, with his face hidden in her neck, had 
murmured : “ It’s my wife I want.” 

“ But aun’t you justabout pleased wud your boy, 
dear ? ” she asked him later, when they were having tea 
and eggs in a cosy blur of firelight and sunshine. 

“ Reckon I am. But babies are unaccountable ugly ; 
and as fur hoalding him, I’d sooner nuss a dud shell.” 

“ He aun’t ugly, Tom; everyone says he’s a justabout 
lovely child — and weighs near fourteen pounds, which is 
valiant fur a boy of his months.” 

“ Maybe — I know naun of babies. But you, Thyrza 
. . . reckon you’re justabout the waonder of the world 
to me.” 

Her eyes filled with tears as she felt his hand groping 
for hers on her knees under the table. 

“ Reckon you’re just another baby,” she said tenderly, 
“ And I’m the mother of you both.” 

241 


242 


THE FOUR ROADS 


2 

But Tom learned to be father as well as husband in 
the days that followed — perhaps it was the joys of his 
husbandhood which woke the fatherhood in him. It 
did not quicken in a blinding flash, as motherhood had 
came to Thyrza when her baby was first laid in her arms, 
but grew and throve in his daily contact with the little 
bit of helplessness and hope which he and Thyrza had 
made between them. It seemed to develop out of and 
be part of his love for her, and in time it seemed to have 
a tender, mellowing effect on that love, making it less 
anxious and passionate, more selfless, more sweet, more 
friendly. . . . 

Those days were different from the days they had 
spent together after their marriage. They never went 
for long walks now, but stopped in their little garden at 
the back of the cottage, where crocuses splashed the 
grass with purple and egg-yellow, and celandines crept 
in under the hedge from the fields of Egypt Farm. Here 
in the warm spring sunshine Thyrza would sit, rocking 
the baby’s cradle with her foot, while she talked to Tom 
in her sweet, drawly voice, of the little trades and doings 
of the past year. Every now and then the shop-bell would 
ring through the cottage, and she would go off to serve 
and gossip, leaving baby in his father’s care . . . “ And 
doan’t you dance him, Tom, or he’ll be sick.” For Tom 
was bolder now, and took perilous liberties with young 
William, just as now, in his third year of soldiering, he 
had begun to take them with the dud to which he had 
compared him. . . . “ Reckon he’ll start fizzing a bit 
before he goes off.” 

In the evenings, when the child was asleep in the cradle 
beside their bed, they would go across the road to the 
willow-pond, and sit or stroll there in the March dusk. 


BABY 


243 


Those were wonderful days of spring, a March which 
was almost May, with sweet slumberous winds, so thick 
and hazy that the grumble of the unceasing guns was lost 
in them, and the War’s heart-beat never broke the 
meadow’s stillness. Soft primrose fogs trailed over 
Horse Eye Marshes under the rising stars, and away be- 
yond them on the sea a siren crooned, like the voice of 
the twilight and the deep. . . . When the sky was dark 
round the big stars, and Orion’s sword hung above 
Molash Woods, they would go in to their supper in the 
lamplight, to the tender, intimate talk of their evening 
hours, and then up, with big reeling shadows moving be- 
fore them on beam and plaster in the candlelight, to the 
dim spring-smelling room where their baby slept, and 
where Thyrza would sleep with her hair spread on the 
pillow like a bed of celandines, and Tom with his brown, 
war-caloused hand in the soft clasp of hers, and his head 
in the hollow of her breast. 

Tom, of course, paid many visits to his family at 
Worge. He found Mus’ Beatup an invalid in the kitchen, 
his leg propped on a chair before him. Owing to his 
constitution it had mended slowly, but four months of 
forced soberness had worked a wonderful result in toning 
up his whole body, so that in spite of his illness his eye 
was brighter, his hand steadier and his voice clearer than 
at any time in Tom’s memory. Unfortunately, the bore- 
dom and privations of his state had only increased that 
“ objectiousness ” of disposition which Mrs. Beatup had 
deplored, and Tom had to sit and listen to long harangues, 
in which the War, the Christian Religion, God, Govun- 
munt, Monogamy, and War Agricultural Committees 
were toppled together in a common ruin. Nell no longer 
argued with him, his flicks and cuts had no power to 
wound, and he soon gave up trying to stir her into the 
little furies which had led to so many rousing arguments. 


244 


THE FOUR ROADS 


It was queer how she had changed. . . . Her chief argu- 
ments were with her mother, who seemed to think that 
the ceremony of marriage was bound automatically to 
create an abstract love of housekeeping in the female 
breast. She was astonished to find that Nell had now no 
greater love for making beds and washing dishes than in 
the days of her spinsterhood. 

“ I never heard of a married woman as cudn’t maake 
a sago pudden,” she said to Tom. 

“ She’d maake it fur her husband quick enough,” said 
Tom with a grin. 

“Well, Steve’s here most Sundays, and she’s never 
maade him naun but a ginger-cake, and she used to maake 
that before she wur wed.” 

“ Wait till she’s got a liddle home of her own . . . 
that’ll be all the difference, woan’t it, Nell?” 

Nell smiled faintly. 

“Would you believe it, Tom?” said Mrs. Beatup, 
“ but when we want a suet pudden now we’ve got to git 
it off a meat-card.” 

“ We’ve heard out there as all you civvies wur on 
rations — and Mus’ Archie one day he got the platoon 
for a bit of parlez-voo and toald us as how you wurn’t 
starved, as so many chaps had letters from their wives, 
saying as they cud git naun to eat.” 

“ Not starved ! That’s valiant. And wot does Mus’ 
Archie know about it? Seemingly you doan’t know wot 
war is out there wud all your tea and your butter and 
your meat. Reckon there’ll never be peace as long as 
soldiering’s the only job you can git fed at.” 

“ Well, you’ve guv me an unaccountable good tea fur 
a starving family. And now I’ll be off and see Harry 
about the farm.” 

Worge was in the midst of its spring sowings, and 
Harry spent his long days in the fields whose harvest he 


BABY 


245 


would not see. The Volunteer field was in potash now, 
dug for potatoes, and there were six more acres of 
potatoes over by the Sunk. 

“ They say as how a hunderd acres of potatoes ull 
feed four hunderd people fur a year/’ he said to Tom — 
“ and yit thur’s always summat unaccountable mean 
about a spud.” 

Tom laughed. “ You’ve done valiant, Harry.” Now 
that his brother’s adventure had justified itself, he had 
abandoned a good deal of his croaking attitude. Besides, 
if things really were getting scarce at home ... he 
wouldn’t like to think of Thyrza and the baby . . . 

“ I’ve done my best,” said Harry moodily, “ but it’s 
over now. Reckon I’ll be called up in two months’ 
time.” 

“ Who’d have thought it ! — you eighteen ! — and the 
liddle skinny limb of wickedness you wur when I went 
away. I’d never have believed it, if you’d toald me thaT 
in two year you’d have maade more of Worge than I in 
five.” 

“ Father wants me to appeal ; but it ud never do, I 
reckon. You cudn’t git off, so I’m not lik to.” 

“ And it wouldn’t be praaper, nuther,” said Tom, rather 
huffily. “ You wud a brother in the Sussex! Farming’s 
all very well, Harry, but soldiering’s better. I didn’t 
think it myself at one time, but now I know different. 
A farm’s hemmed liddle use if Kayser Bill gits his per- 
ishing plaace in the sun. Besides, the praaper job fur a 
praaper Sussex chap is along of other Sussex chaps, fight- 
ing fur their farms. That’s whur I’d lik my old brother 
to be, and whur he’d like to be himself, I reckon.” 

“ I shudn’t,” said Harry, “ any more than you did at 
fust.” 

“ I aun’t maaking out as I enjoy it — so you needn’t 
jump at me lik that. The chap who tells you he enjoys 


246 


THE FOUR ROADS 


it out thur, reckon he taakes you fur a middling thick 
’un, or he’s middling thick himself. But wot I say is, 
that it’s the praaper plaace fur a Sussex chap to be. 
Ask me wot I enjoy, and I’ll tell you ” — and Tom jerked 
his pipe-stem over the ribbed hump of the field towards 
the cottages of Sunday Street, stewing like apples in the 
sunshine. “ My fancy’s a liddle hoame of my own, and 
a wife and child in it, and my own bit of ground out- 
side the door ; and when we’ve wound up the watch on 
the Rhine, reckon I’ll be justabout glad to taake my 
coat off and sit in the sun and see my liddle ’un playing 
raound — and be shut of all that tedious hell wot’s over 
thur, Harry, acrost Horse Eye and the Channel, if folks 
at home only knew it — which seemingly they doan’t . . . 
and I’m middling glad they doan’t, surelye.” 

Harry was impressed, and a little ashamed. 

“ Never think as I aun’t willing, Tom. I’m willing 
enough, though I’d grown so unaccountable set on the 
new ploughs. Howsumdever, I’ve got things started like, 
and Zacky, maybe, when I’m gone, he’ll pull to and carry 
on, saum as I did ; and father, he’s twice the head he had 
afore he bruk his leg and cudn’t git his drink. Seem- 
ingly, they’ll do valiant wudout me, and I . . . well, I’ve 
come to love these fields so middling dear that if one day 
I find I’ve got to die fur them, reckon I shudn’t ought 
to mind much.” 


3 

“ I must go and see Mus’ Sumption,” said Tom to 
Thyrza. He said it several times before he went, for the 
days swam in a golden fog over his home, shutting him 
into enchanted ground. It was hard to break out of it 
even to go to Worge, and he found himself shelving the 
thought of leaving for two hours of worse company the 
little garden where the daffodils followed the crocuses, 


BABY 


247 


the shop all stuffy with the smell of tea and candles, 
the bluish-whiteness of the little sag-roofed rooms, and 
his wife and child, who were not so much figures in the 
frame of it all as an essence, a sunshine soaking through 
it. . . . However, Thyrza kept him to his word. 

“ I’m tedious sorry fur Mus’ Sumption — he looks that 
worn and wild. Maybe you cud give him news of 
Jerry.” 

“ No good news.” 

“ Well, go up and have a chat wud the pore soul. 
Reckon he’ll be mighty glad to see you, and you’re sure 
to think of summat comforting to say.” 

So Tom went, one evening after tea. He found the 
minister in his faded threadbare room at the Horse- 
lunges, writing the letter which every week he dropped 
into the post-box at Brownbread Street, and generally 
heard no more of. The evening sun poured angrily on 
his stooped grey head, and made the room warm and 
stuffy without the expense of a fire. The old, old cat 
sat sulkily before the empty grate, and the white mice 
tapped with little pink hands on the glass front of their 
cage. The thrush had been dead some months. 

“ Hello, Tom. This is kind of you, lad,” and Mr. 
Sumption sprang up in hearty welcome, shaking Tom by 
the hand, and actually tipping the cat out of the arm- 
chair so that his visitor might be comfortably seated. 

Tom sat down and pulled out his pipe, and for some 
minutes they edged and skated about on general topics. 
Then the minister asked suddenly — 

“ And how did you leave Jerry? ” 

“ Valiant ” — certainly Jeremiah Meridian Sumption 
was a hardy, healthy little beggar. 

But Mr. Sumption was not deceived. 

“ Valiant in body, maybe. But, Tom, I fear for his 
immortal soul.” 


248 


THE FOUR ROADS 


Tom did not know wat to say. He had never before 
seen the minister without his glorious pretence of faith 
in his son. 

“ It’s strange/' continued Mr. Sumption, “ but from his 
birth that boy was seemingly marked out by Satan. 
Maybe it was the bad blood of the Rossarmescroes or 
Hearns ; his mother was the sweetest, loveliest soul that 
ever slept under a bush ; but there’s no denying that the 
Hearns’ blood is bad blood — roving, thieving, lusting, 
Satanic blood — and he’s got it in him, has my boy, more 
than he’s got the decent blood of my fathers.” 

“ Has he written to you lately? ” 

“ Oh, he writes now and again. He’s fond of me. 
But he doesn’t sound happy. Then Bill Putland, when 

he came home to get married, he told me ” 

There was silence, and Tom fidgeted. 

“ He told me as Jerry had got hold of a French girl 
in one of the towns — a bad lot, seemingly.” 

“ He’ll get over it,” said Tom. “ Reckon he can’t have 
much love fur such a critter.” 

“ You knew of it too, then? ” 

“ Oh, we’ve all heard. He got First Field Punishment 

on her account, fur ” 

“ Go on.” 

“ Thur’s naun to say. I guess she’s bad all through. 
Some of these girls, they’re bits of stuff as you might 
say, but they’d never kip a man off his duty or git him 
into trouble on their account. Howsumdever, the wuss 
she is the sooner he’s lik to git shut of her.” 

Mr. Sumption groaned. 

“If only he could have married your sister Ivy! ” 

“ Ivy aun’t to blame.” 

“ No — she’s not. I mustn’t be unjust. She treated 
him fair and square all through ; he says it himself. But, 
Tom, it’s terrible to think that one human creature’s got 


BABY 249 

the power to give another to Satan, and no blame at- 
tached to either.” 

“ Maybe Jerry wur Satan's before he wur Ivy's,” said 
Tom sharply ; then felt ashamed as he met the minister's 
eyes with their tortured glow. 

“ Maybe you're right. This is Satan’s hour. He’s got 
us all for a season, and this War is his last kick before 
the Angel of the Lord chains him down in the lake which 
burneth with fire and brimstone. These are the day;s of 
which the Scripture saith, that unless the Lord should 
shorten them for the Elect’s sake, no man could be 
saved.” 

“ I guess we’ve nearly done the Lord’s job. The per- 
ishers are even more fed up than us, which is putting it 
strong. Let 'em start this Big Push of theirri as thur’s 
bin such a talk about. Doan’t you vrother about Jerry, 
Mus’ Sumption — he’ll be shut of this girl before long, 
and you’ll git him back here and wed him to a good soul 
as ull do better fur him than Ivy.” 

Mr. Sumption shook his head. 

“ This is the war which shall end the world.” 

“ Reckon I aun't going out there, away from my wife 
and child and home, all among the whizz-bangs and the 
coal-boxes, and git all over mud and lice, jest to help on 
the end of the world. This world’s good enough fur me, 
and I hope it’ll go on a bit longer after peace is signed, 
so as I’ll git a chance of enjoying it.” 

“ And they shall reign with Him a thousand years.” 
Tom was a little weary of Mr. Sumption in this mood ; 
however, he felt sorry for him, and let him run on. 

“ You must be blind indeed,” continued the minister, 
“ if you don’t see how the Scriptures have been fulfilled — 
nation against nation and kingdom against kingdom, and 
the Holy City given back to the Jews, and the sun turned 
to darkness with the clouds of poisoned gas, and the moon 


250 


THE FOUR ROADS 


to blood . . . the blood of the poor souls that are killed 
in moonlight air-raids. . . . ” 

Tom knocked out his pipe. 

“ Then at last ” — and the minister’s eye kindled and 
his whole sunburnt face glowed with the mixed fires of 
hope and fanaticism — “ the sign of the Son of Man shall 
appear in the heavens, and He shall come again in power 
and great glory. Even so, come, Lord Jesus — but come 
before our hearts are all broken. What’s the use of 
chaining up the Dragon in the Lake if he’s already de- 
voured the world? Shorten these days, for the Elect’s 
sake — save us from the burning, fiery furnace which is 
making frizzle of our bones and cinders of our 
hearts.” 

He suddenly dropped his head between his hands. 
Tom felt a bit upset. He had again and again heard all 
this in chapel, but it was embarrassing and rather alarm- 
ing to have it coming from the next chair. 

“ Reckon you mind this War more’n I do,” he re- 
marked lamely. 

“ Because to you it is just war — while to me it’s Judg- 
ment. This is the day of which the Prophet spoke, the 
day that shall burn as an oven, and our sons and daugh- 
ters shall burn as tow. . . . Bless you, young chap! 
there have been other wars — the country’s full of their 
dead names . . . there were two lakes of blood up at 
Senlac. . . . But this war, it’s the End, it’s Doomsday. 
Now it shall be proved indeed that Christ died for the 
Elect, for all save the Elect shall perish. Tom, I have 
a terrible fear that I shall have to stand by and see my 
boy perish.” 

“ Oh, he’ll pull through right enough — give him his 
head and he’ll come to his senses afore long.” 

“ I’m afraid not.” Mr. Sumption rose and began 
walking up and down the room, his hands clasped behind 


BABY 


251 


him. The dipping sun poured over his burly figure, show- 
ing up in its beautiful merciless beam the seediness of 
his coat and the worn hollows and graven lines of his 
face. “ I’m afraid not, Tom Beatup. I’m afraid I’ll have 
to stand by and see my boy damned. I’ll stand among 
the sheep and see him among the goats. There’s no good 
trying to job myself into thinking he’s one of the Elect — 
he knows he isn’t, and I know it. Whereas I have 
Assurance — I’ve had it a dunnamany years. Between us 
two there is a great gulf fixed. I’ll have to dwell for 
ever in Mount Sion, in the general assembly and church 
of the firstborn, and see him for ever across the gulf, 
in hell.” 

“ Then reckon you’ll be in hell yourself.” 

“ It seems like it. But the ways of the Lord are past 
finding out. . . . And I would willingly give my soul 
for Jerry’s — the soul the Lord has damned from the 
womb. ...” 

Tom stood up. He felt he could not stand any more 
of this. 

“ Seemingly your religion aun’t much of a comfort to 
you. . . . Well, I must be going now.” 

“ You’ll come again? ” 

“ Reckon I will, if you’re lonesome.” 

“ And look here, Tom; you won’t say a word to other 
folk of what I’ve spoken — about Jerry, I mean. It ud 
never do if the parish came to think that he was getting 
into bad ways.” 

“ I’ll say naun — trust me. Reckon Jerry’s middling 
lucky to have you stick by him as you do.” 

“ Jerry once said he sometimes felt as if there was 
only me between him and hell. Seemingly I’m the only 
friend he’s got.” 

Tom felt very sorry for Mr. Sumption. He told 
Thyrza that he thought he must be getting queer with 


252 


THE FOUR ROADS 


his troubles, and Thyrza immediately planned to take 
the baby to see him; and a day or two later they asked 
him down to the shop for the afternoon, and had the 
pleasure of seeing him momentarily forget his troubles 
in a good tea. “ Reckon the poor soul thinks a lot of 
his inside,” said Thyrza, “ and doan’t always git enough 
to fill it with.” 

4 

The last days of Tom’s fortnight seemed to rush by 
in spate; they blew before the March wind like the dust. 
Thyrza hurried on her little preparations for his de- 
parture — she was making him new shirts, and with loving 
hands repairing all of his that was frayed and worn, 
from his shirt to his soul. . . . For even Tom’s simple 
soul had been touched by the blight of war, and there 
was a look at the back of his eyes which came from 
things he never spoke of . . . things he had seen out 
there in the land of horrors, which the folk at home did 
not realise — and he was unaccountable glad they did not. 
Thyrza’s love had driven that look to the back of his 
eyes and those memories to the back of his heart, though 
probably she would never be able to drive either the look 
or the memories quite away. Such things were now the 
lot of boys. . . . 

He still went occasionally to Worge, and sat with his 
father and mother in the kitchen, or gave Harry a hand 
on the farm. He persuaded Mus’ Beatup to engage a 
lad for cow and stable work, so that his brother’s burden 
was made lighter. One day Ivy came over with Sergeant 
Staples. The slow formalities of his discharge were 
crawling on, and she hoped to be married and to sail 
for Canada before the summer was out. It struck Tom 
that she had sweetened and sobered since he saw her last. 
Rumours of her affair with Seagrim had reached him, 


BABY 


253 


and he was glad to have her settled down. “ Ricky’s a 
valiant pal,” she said once, and the words struck the dif- 
ference between her love for him and the love she had 
had for Seagrim, and would have explained, if anyone 
had cared for an explanation, the comparative ease and 
quickness with which she had turned from one to the 
other. Seagrim had never been a pal — he had been a 
spell, a marvel, a magic that would never come back, a 
wonder which a woman’s heart must know but can 
seldom keep. Ricky, with his red hair and grinning 
monkeyish face, would never throw over Ivy’s world the 
glamour of those weeks with Seagrim, he would never 
transfigure the earth or turn pots to gold. . . . On the 
other hand, as Ivy said, he was better to jog along with, 
and she was certainly born for the ardours and endur- 
ances of a colonial’s wife — “ So that’s settled and done 
with,” she thought to herself with a contented sigh — “ and 
I reckon I’m a middling lucky girl. It’s queer how Nell 
and me have seemingly done just the saum — lost our 
hearts to one man and then gone and married another. 
But I kept my head and did it sensible, while she, reckon 
she lost hers and did it unsensible. Poor Nell! . . . 
but I told her 'straight as Kadwell wur a swine.” 

Nell had left the farm about four days after Tom’s 
return. Her husband had suddenly claimed her, and had 
fetched her away to spend his last leave with him in 
London. He expected to go to France in a week or two 
now. Tom did not dislike his new brother-in-law ; he 
thought him a “ good feller,” and considered him won- 
derfully forbearing with Nell when she cried on saying 
good-bye to her mother, and went away with her pretty 
face all marbled and blotched with tears. 

“ I’ve got no patience wud girls wot taake on them 
silly maidenish airs,” he said to Thyrza. “ You never 
cried when you caum to me, surelye.” 


254 


THE FOUR ROADS 


44 Fd no mother to say good-bye to. Some girls always 
cry when they say good-bye to their mothers.” 

“ Nell never used to be so set on mother in the oald 
times.” 

“ But it's different now — it always is,” said Thyrza 
wisely — “ that’s why some folks ud sooner have a darter 
than a son. When a son goes marrying he turns away 
from his parents, but a girl, the more she loves outside 
the more she loves at home.” 

Tom pondered her words, and found himself beginning 
to feel a little guilty. 

“ Maybe you’re right. I hope Will woan’t go and dis- 
remember us when he weds.” 

“ Reckon he will,” said Thyrza — “ it’s only nature.” 
Tom went up to Worge every evening till the end of 
his leave. 

5 

The last evening came, and Tom’s good-byes. 

“ Reckon it’s always 4 good-bye ’ now,” said Mrs. 
Beatup. 44 Good-bye to Ivy, good-bye to Nell, good- 
bye to Tom — sims as if, as if that ward ud git lik my 
oald broom, wore out from overuse.” 

44 Thur’d be no good-byes if thur hadn’t bin howdy- 
dos fust. So cheer up, mother, and we’ll be saying 
howdy-do agaun before Michaelmas.” 

44 And then good-bye. Oh, Tom, when ull this tedious 
war have done ? ” 

44 When it’s finished. Doan’t you fret over that, mother 
— reckon that aun’t your job.” 

44 1 wish it ud have done, though, before our hearts 
are broke.” 

Nell was expected home that evening, and Mrs. Beatup 
persuaded Tom to wait for her. He spent the interval 
going over the farm with Harry, and giving last advice, 


BABY 


255 


though it was astonishing how firm on his legs his brother 
now stood. He also took his chance of a straight talk 
with Zacky. 

“ Reckon you’re growing up lik a young colt, and you’ll 
have to taake your turn now — step into Harry’s plaace 
saum as he stepped into mine.” 

Zacky’s besetting sin was not a lust for adventure in 
woods and distant fields ; he moved in a more humdrum 
circle of dereliction — marbles and conkers and worms and 
string. However, Tom discovered that he had a passion 
for “ taking things to pieces ” and hoped to inspire him 
to zeal over the new mechanical reaper which was that 
year to be the wonder of Worge’s harvest. 

To everyone’s disappointment, Nell did not arrive in 
a cab. She came on foot from Senlac station, leaving 
her box to follow by the carrier. Mrs. Beatup felt that 
Tom had been cheated, on his last day at home, of a fine 
spectacular entertainment, and was inclined to be peevish 
with Nell on his account. 

“ Reckon it wurn’t your husband who told you to walk 
six mile in the dust.” 

“ No — but it’s such a beautiful evening, and I felt I 
wanted the fresh air after London.” 

She looked worn and fagged, as she sat down by the 
fire, spreading out her pale hands to the flames to warm. 

Mrs. Beatup sniffed. 

“ Reckon thur’s more air-raids than air in London,” 
said Tom — “ Ha! ha! ” and they all laughed at the joke. 

“ But they dudn’t have naun while Nell was there,” 
said Mrs. Beatup, continuing her grumble. “ Nell, how 
dud you lik the Strand Paliss Hotel? ” 

“ Oh, pretty fair — it was very grand, but a great big 
barrack like that makes my head turn round.” 

“ How big was it ? ” asked Zacky. “ As big as 
church ? ” 


256 


THE FOUR ROADS 


44 Bigger a dunnamany times,” said Mrs. Beatup. 
44 I’ve seen the Hotel Metropoil in Brighton, and reckon 
you cud git the whole street into it.” 

44 Did you have a fire in your bedroom? ” 

“ No — there were hot pipes.” 

44 Hot pipes! How queer! — I shud feel as if I wur 
in a boiler.” 

44 And there was hot and cold water laid on.” 

44 Reckon you washed.” 

44 I had a bath.” 

44 In your room? ” 

44 No — in a bathroom.” 

“ A real white bath in a bathroom ! . . .” Mrs. Beatup 
was regaining confidence in her daughter. 44 You’ll be 
gitting too grand fur us here. They say as once you 
start taaking baths it’s like taaking drams, and you 
can’t git shut of it. I’ll have to see if I can’t fix fur you 
to have the wash-tub now and agaun. . . . Oh, you’ll 
find us plain folks here.” 

Nell did not speak; she was stooping over the fire 
and her spread hands shook a little. 

“ Reckon she’s low,” said Mrs. Beatup in a hoarse 
whisper to Tom; 44 she’s said good-bye to her man, and 
she’s vrothering lest he never comes back. It’s always 
4 good-bye ’ fur her lik fur the rest of us.” 

44 It’ll have to be 4 good-bye ’ fur me now, mother. I 
must be gitting hoame.” 

Mrs. Beatup stood up sorrowfully — 

44 Oh, Tom, I’ve a feeling as you’ll never come back.” 
44 You’ve always had that feeling, mother — and I’ve 
always come back, surelye.” 

44 But maybe I’m right this time. They say as the Ger- 
mans ull maake a gurt push this Spring, and I reckon 
they’re sure to kill you if they can.” 

44 Reckon they’ll have a try — and if my number’s up 


BABY 257 

I mun go, and if it aun’t, I mun stay. So thur’s no sense 
in vrothering.” 

“ You spik very differunt, Tom, from when you wur 
a lad.” 

“ I feel different, you can bet.” 

“ And yit it’s scarce two year agone since you wur 
naun but a boy, and now you’re naun of a boy that I 
can see — you’re a married man and the father of a 
child.” 

“ And whur’s the harm of it ? — you needn’t look so 
glum.” 

He took her in his arms and kissed her. Then he 
kissed his father — 

“ Good-bye, dad — you’ll be climbing fences afore I’m 
back, and — ” in a friendly whisper, “you kip away from 
that old Volunteer. See wot gitting shut of the drink has 
maade you — you’re twice the man, fur all your leg. You 
kip on wud it, faather. You’ve got a start like — it ought 
to be easy now.” 

“ Kip on wud wot, my lad ? — wud my leg, or the drink, 
or doing wudout the drink? You doan’t spik clear and 
expressly — reckon you’re gitting just a brutal soldier.” 

“ Maybe I am, Faather.” 

“ And you’ll never come raound me to kip teetotal when 
I think of them Russians — all got shut of drink the fust 
month of the war, and then went and bust up and ruined 
us. It’s bin proved as the war ull go on a dunnamany 
years on account of them valiant teetotallers. If we 
British all turn teetotal too, reckon as the war ull last fur 
ever.” 

“ Reckon you’ve got the brains ! ” said Tom, but not in 
quite the same tone as he used to say it. 

He said good-bye to Harry and Zacky, and to Nell — 
with a pat on her shoulder and a “ Doan’t you fret, my 
dear — he’ll come back.” 







258 


THE FOUR ROADS 


Mrs. Beatup went down with him to the end of the 
drive. She looked on this as her privilege, and also had 
some hazy idea about giving him good advice. All she 
could think of on the present occasion was to “ Kip sober 
and finish the war.” 

“ Wish that being my faather’s son maade it as easy 
to do one as it does to do t’other. Now doan’t you start 
crying, fur I tell you I’ll be back before you scarce know 
I’m a-gone.” 

“ It’s queer, Tom . . . now, thur’s summat I want to 
know. Tell me — is a wife better than a mother?” 

“ Better — but different. Doan’t you fear, mother. I’ll 
always want you. Maybe I went and disremembered you 
and faather a bit after I wur married, but now I’ve a 
youngster of my own it just shows me a liddle bit of 
wot you feel . . . and I’m sorry.” 

He suddenly kissed her work-soiled, roughened hand, 
with its broken nails and thick dull wedding-ring sunk 
into the gnarled finger. 

“ That’s wot they do to ladies in France.” 

6 

She watched him walk off down the Street, stopping 
to light his pipe where the oast of Egypt Farm made a 
lee against the racing wind. Then she walked slowly and 
heavily back to the house, planning a little consolation 
for herself in listening to Nell’s tale of wonders. 

But when she came to the kitchen she found that 
Nell had gone upstairs— to wash, Mus’ Beatup told her. 
Moved by a spasm of tenderness, she took the kettle from 
the fire and creaked off with it to her daughter’s room. 

Knocking at bedroom doors was a refinement unknown 
at Worge. Mrs. Beatup accordingly burst in, to find Nell 
sitting on the bed, with her face hidden in her hands. 


BABY 


259 






She had taken off her gown, and sat arrayed in a short 
silk petticoat and an under-bodice of a transparency that 
made her mother gasp ; over her shoulders was nothing 
but two pale-blue ribbons, against which her arms showed 
yellowish-white and plumper than they used to be. So 
astonished was Mrs. Beatup at this display that she 
scarcely noticed the hidden face. 

“ Nell, how fine ! But you’ll catch your death — I 
wonder your husband let you ...” Her voice trailed 
off, for Nell had dropped her hands, and her face was 
running with tears. 

“ My poor liddle girl ! ” — the mother’s heart went out 
in pity. She put the kettle on the floor, and going over 
to the bed, sat down on it with a great creaking of 
springs, and put her arms round her daughter — at first 
rather gingerly, for fear of spoiling so much elegance, 
then straining them closer, as Nell, melted into an aban- 
donment of weakness, began to sob against her breast. 

“ My poor liddle girl ! . . . It’s unaccountable sad 
fur you. I know. ... I know. . . . But doan’t you 
vrother, chick — he’ll come back. I’ve a feeling as he’ll 
come back.” 

A long shudder passed through Nell. Then suddenly 
she raised herself, gripping her mother’s arms, while her 
eyes blazed through her tears. “ Oh, mother, mother 
. . . don’t you see? . . . it’s not that I’m afraid he 
won’t come back . . . it’s that I’m afraid he will.” 

She threw herself down upon the pillow, sobbing with 
the accumulated misery, humiliation, rage and dread of 
weeks. Mrs. Beatup stared at her, dumbfounded. 

“Nell — wot are you talking of? You doan’t want 
Steve to come back ? ” 

“ No — I hate him. I — I . . . if he comes back . . . 
and takes me away to be my husband for good, I — I’ll 
kill myself.” 


260 


THE FOUR ROADS 


“ Reckon you doan’t know what you’re saying. You 
loved him unaccountable when you wur wed.” 

“ I didn’t love him . . . not truly. And he’s killed 
the little love I had.” 

“ But all the fine things he’s guv you. ...” 

“ Doan’t talk about them. They’re just part of the 
horribleness.” 

“Then you’re telling me as you maade a mistake?” 

“ Reckon I did. Reckon my only chance now is that 
: he won’t come back.” 

She began to sob again, not tempestuously, but slowly 
and painfully, gradually jerking to silence. A soft green 
twilight deepened in the room, and the low gurgling calls 
of starlings trilled under the eaves. The mother still sat 
on the bed-foot, staring at her daughter, who now lay 
still, a pool of blue in the dusk with her silk petticoat, her 
shoulders showing nacreous against the dead-white of the 
pillow. Mrs. Beatup was stunned, her mind slowly ad- 
justing itself to the revelation that there was in war 
another tragedy besides the tragedy of those who do not 
come back — and that is the tragedy of some who do. 

7 

The dipping sun slanted over the fields from Stilliands 
Tower, and made Tom Beatup’s khaki like a knight’s 
golden armour as he trudged home. The sky was a 
spread pool of blue, full of light like water, and moss- 
green in the east where it dipped towards the woods of 
Senlac. Soft whorls of dust bowled down the lane be- 
fore a fluttering, racing wind, that smelled of prim- 
roses and rainy grass. 

Tom heaved a deep sigh of well-being as he stopped 
to light his pipe. To-morrow he would have left these 
sun-swamped sorrowless fields and be back in the country 


BABY 


261 


where the earth was torn and gutted as if by an earth- 
quake, all scabbed and leprous as if diseased with the 
putrefaction of its million dead — where the air rocked 
with crashes, roars, rumbles, whizzes, caterwaulings, and 
reeked with flowing stenches of dead bodies, blood, and 
hideous chemicals — where any thornbush might conceal a 
sight of horror to freeze heart and eyeballs . . . and 
yet he could put the dread of it out of his mind, and 
smile contentedly, and blink his eyes in the sun. 

A few yards down the street his cottage showed its 
little misted shape, while its windows shone like garnets 
in the western radiance, and a tall column of wood-smoke 
rose behind it, blowing and bowing in the adventurous 
wind, which brought him snatches of its perfume, with 
the sweetness of wet banks and primroses and budding 
apple-boughs. . . . He knew that in the shop door Thyrza 
stood with the baby in her arms; she would be waiting 
for him there with the sunshine swimming over her white 
apron and purple gown, making the downy fluff on little 
Will’s head to shine yellow as a duckling’s feathers. The 
thought of wife and child was not cankered by the dread 
that he might never see them again. The parting when 
it came would be terrible — he might break down over it, 
as he had broken down before — but he had all a soldier’s 
solid fatalism and scorn of the future, and was, perhaps, 
strengthened by the inarticulate knowledge that if he were 
to die to-morrow he died a man complete. From the 
lumbering, unawakened lad of two years ago he had 
come to a perfect manhood, to be a husband and father, 
fulfilling himself in a simple, natural way, with a quick- 
ness and richness which could never have been if the war 
had not seized him and forced him out of his old groove 
into its adventurous paths. If he died, the war would but 
have taken away what it had given — a man ; for through 
it he had in a short time fulfilled a long time, and at 


262 THE FOUR ROADS 

twenty-two could die in the old age of a complete, un- 
spotted life. 

He passed under the sign of the Rifle Volunteer, strad- 
dling the road in his green uniform, with his rifle and pot 
of beer — “ Queer old perisher,” thought Tom, looking 
up at him — “ I shudn’t like to go over the top in that rig.” 

The Rifle Volunteer creaked noisily on his sign, as if 
the soldier of bygone years challenged the soldier of 
to-day. 

“ I am the man armed for the War That Never Was, 
who marched and drilled and camped to fight the French, 
who never came. And you are the man unarmed for the 
War That Had To Be, who never drilled or marched or 
camped to fight the Germans, who came and nearly drove 
you off the earth.” 

“ Reckon he’d have bin most use a hunderd mile 
away,” scoffed Tom. 

“ I went of my free-will and you because you were 
fetched,” said the Rifle Volunteer. “Two years ago I 
saw you walking down this road under my patriotic legs, 
a wretched, drag-heel conscript.” 

“ He never fought in any war that I know of,” thought 
Tom, “ and yit I reckon thur used to be wars in these 
parts in the oald days. Minister says the country’s full 
of thur naums. I doan’t know naun, surelye.” 

The east wind blew from Senlac, sweet with the scent 
of the ash-trees growing on the barrow where Saxon and 
Norman lay tumbled together in the brotherhood of 
sleep. 

“ Here — when a great whinny moor rolled down from 
Anderida to the sea, and Pevens Isle and Horse Isle were 
green in the bight of the bay, and the family of the 
Heastings had finished building their ham by the coast 
— here used to be the Lake of Blood, where hearts were 
drowned. A red tun stands on it now, and good folk 


BABY 


263 


come to it on market-days. Thus shall it be with all wars 
— out of the red blood the red town, and under the green 
barrows friend and foe, tumbled together in the brother- 
hood of sleep.” 

The east wind like a Saxon ghost whistled against 
Tom's neck. 

“ We fought as you did once — we hated the Norman 
as you hate the German, yet look how peacefully we sleep 
together.” 

“ They must have been funny,” thought Tom, “ those 
oald wars wud bows and arrows.” 

“ Harold ! Harold ! . . . Rollo ! Rollo ! ” cried the 
ghosts on the east wind from Senlac. 

“ God save the Queen,” said the Rifle Volunteer. 



PART VII : MR. SUMPTION 


i 

I T was early in April. A soft fleck of clouds lay over 
the sky, so thin, so rifted, that the sinking lights 
of afternoon bloomed their hollows with cowslip. A 
misty warmth hung over the fields, drawing up the per- 
fume of violets and harrowed earth, of the soft clay-mud 
of the lanes, not yet dry after a shower and with puddles 
lying in the ruts like yellow milk. 

Sunday Street was in stillness, like a village in a 
dream. Thin spines of wook-smoke rose from its chim- 
neys, blue against the grey dapple of the clouds. The 
chink of a hammer came from the Forge, but so muffled, 
so rhythmic that it seemed part of the silence. The 
watery atmosphere intensified that effect of dream and 
illusion which the village had that evening. Through it 
the cottages and farms showed with a watery clear- 
ness and at the same time a strange air of distance and 
unreality. There was flooding light, yet no sunshine, 
distinctness of every line in eaves and tiling, of every 
daffodil and primrose in garden-borders, and yet that 
peculiar sense as of something far away, intangible, a 
mirage painted on a cloud. It was thus that the vision 
of his home might rise before the stretched, abnormal 
sight of a dying man, a simulacrum, a fetch. . . . 

Thyrza Beatup sat beside the willow pond at the corner 
of the Street, on the trunk of a fallen tree. In her arms 
she held her baby, asleep in a shawl. She felt warm and 
content and rather sleepy. In her pocket was Tom’s last 

264 


MR. SUMPTION 


265 


letter from France, but she did not read it, for she knew 
it by heart . . . “ I think of you always, you dear little 
creature, you and baby — even when my mind is full of 
the things out here, and this great battle which is seem- 
ingly the biggest there’s ever been.” . . . “ How I wonder 
when I’ll get another leave. I reckon baby ull have 
grown a bit and you’ll be just the same.” . . . “ I shut 
my eyes and I can see your face ; reckon I love you more 
every time I think of you, and I think of you day and 
night, so you can guess all the love that makes.” . . . 
Tender phrases floated in and out of her mind, and then 
she smiled as she remembered a funny story Tom had 
told her about a chap in the A.S.C. . . . 

She drew the baby closer into her arms, looking down 
at his little sleeping face, which she thought was grow- 
ing more and more like Tom’s. She drooped her eye- 
lids and in the mist of her lashes half seemed to see 
Tom’s face there in the crook of her elbow, where it had 
so often been, turning towards her breast. Poor Tom! 
his head was not so softly pillowed these nights . . . 
and as suddenly she pictured him lying on the bare, foul 
ground, his head on his haversack, his cheeks unshaved, 
his body verminous, his limbs all aching with cold and 
stiffness — he, her man, her darling, whom she would 
have had rest so sweetly and so cleanly, with nothing but 
sweetness and comfort for the body that she loved — then 
a sudden flame of rebellion blazed up in her heart, and 
its simplicity was scarred with questions — Why was this 
terrible War allowed to be? How was it that women 
could let their men go to endure its horrors? Did anyone 
in England ever yet know what it was these boys had 
to suffer? Oh, stop it, stop it! for the sake of the boys 
out there, and for the boys who have still to go . . . 
save at least a few straight limbs, a few unbroken hearts. 

She clenched her hands, and little Will moaned against 


266 


THE FOUR ROADS 


her breast, and as she felt his little fists beating against 
her, the hard mood softened, and she bent over him with 
soothing words and caresses — words of comfort for her- 
self as well as for her child. 

“ Don’t cry, liddle Will — daddy ull come back — daddy’s 
thinking of us. He’s out there so that you ull never have 
to go ; he bears all that so that you may never have to 
bear it.” 

A thick grape red had trickled into the west like a spill 
of wine. The afternoon had suddenly crimsoned into the 
evening, and ruddy lights came slanting over the fields, 
deepening, reddening, so that the willows were like 
flames, and the willow pond was like a lake of blood. 
. . . The night wind rose, and Thyrza shivered. 

“ We mun be gitting hoame, surelye,” and she stood 
up, pulling the shawl over the baby’s face. 

At the same time her heart was full of peace. The 
questioning mood had passed, and had given place to 
one single deep assurance of her husband’s love. Tom’s 
love seemed to go with her into the house, to be with 
her as she bathed Will and put him to bed, to drive 
away her brooding thoughts when, later on, she sat 
alone in the lamplight at her supper. She sang to her- 
self as she put away the supper, a silly old song of Tom’s 
when he first joined up : 

“ The bells of hell go ring-aling-aling 
For you, but not for me ; 

For me the angels sing-aling-aling, 

They’ve got the goods for me. 

O Death, where is thy sting-aling-aling? 

Where, grave, thy victory? 

The bells of hell go ring-aling-aling 
For you, but not for me.” 

Now that darkness had fallen, the clouds had rolled 
away from the big stars blinking in the far-off peace. 


MR. SUMPTION 


267 


A soft, sweet-smelling cold was in the house, the emana- 
tion of the damp mould of the garden, where hyacinths 
bathed their purples and yellows in the white flood of 
the moon — of the twinkling night air, cold and clear as 
water — of the fields with their brown moist ribs and 
clumps of violets. 

Thyrza’s room was full of light, for the westering 
moon hung over Starnash like a sickle, and the fields 
showed grey against their hedges and the huddled woods. 
She undressed without a candle, so bright was the moon- 
dazzle on her window, and after saying her prayers 
climbed into bed, where little Will now lay in his 
father's place. Once more she tried to picture that his 
head was Tom’s, and that her husband lay beside her, 
while Will slept in his cradle, as he had slept when Tom 
was at home. But the illusion faltered — Will was so 
small, and Tom was so big in spite of his stockiness, and 
took up so much more room, making the mattress cant 
under him, whereas Will lay on it as lightly as a kitten. 
However, she did not badly need the comfort of make- 
believe, for her sense of Tom’s love was so real, so in- 
tense, and so sweet, that it filled all the empty corners of 
her heart, making her forget the empty corners of her 
bed. She lay with one arm flung out towards the baby, 
the other curved against her side, while her hair spread 
over the pillow like a bed of celandines, and the moon- 
light drew in soft gleams and shadows the outlines of her 
breast. 

She lay very still — nearly as still as Tom was lying in 
the light of the same moon. . . . But not quite so still, 
for the stillness of the living is never so perfect, so 
untroubled as the stillness of the dead. 


268 


THE FOUR ROADS 


2 

Worge knew nearly as soon as the Shop, for Nell, 
running down after breakfast to buy tobacco for her 
father, found the blinds still drawn. The door was 
unlocked, however, so she went in and called her sister- 
in-law. There was no answer, and, vaguely alarmed, 
she went upstairs, to find Thyrza sitting on the unmade 
bed, still wearing the print wrapper she had slipped on 
when the shop-bell rang during her dressing. 

“ I must go and tell his mother,” she kept repeating, 
when Nell had read the telegram, and had set about, with 
true female instinct, to make her a cup of tea. 

“ Don’t you worry over that, dear — I’ll tell her.” 

“ Reckon he’d sooner I did.” 

“ No — no ; it would be such a strain for you. I’ll go 
when I’ve made your tea.” 

At that moment little Will woke up, and cried for his 
breakfast — his mother had forgotten him for the first 
time since he was born. Nell welcomed the distraction, 
though her heart tightened as she saw Thyrza’s arms 
sweep to the child, and quiver while she held him with 
his little cool tear-dabbled cheek against her own so tear- 
less and so dry. Nell left her with the boy at her 
breast, a big yellow hank of hair adrift upon her shoul- 
der, and her eyes staring from under the tangle, fixed, 
strangely dark, strangely bright, as if their grief were 
both a shadow and an illumination. 

She herself ran back on her self-inflicted errand, all 
her being merged into the one pain of knowing that in 
ten minutes she would have turned a jogging peace to 
bitterness, and bankrupted her mother’s life of its chief 
treasure. She saw herself as a flame leaping from one 
burning house to set another light. 

Mrs. Beatup’s reception of the news held both the 
expected and the unexpected. 


MR. SUMPTION 


269 


“ I knew it,” she said stonily — “ I felt it — I felt it in 
my boans. And I toald him, too — I told him, poor soul, 
as he’d never come back, and now he’ll never come, 
surelye.” Then she said suddenly — “ I mun go to her.” 

“ Go to whom, mother dear ? ” 

“ Thyrza. He’d want it . . . and reckon she feels it 
even wuss than me.” 

Nothing could dissuade her, and off she went, to 
comfort the woman with whom she had so long played 
tug-of-war for her son. 

Nell stayed behind in the dreary house, where it seemed 
as if things slunk and crept. It was holiday-time, so 
Zacky was at home, sobbing in a corner of the haystack, 
crying on and on monotonously till he scarcely knew what 
he cried for, then suddenly charmed out of his grief by a 
big rat that popped out of the straw and ran across his 
legs. Elphick and Juglery mumbled and grumbled to- 
gether in the barn, and talked of the shame of a yeoman 
dying out of his bed, and cast deprecating eyes on the 
indecency of Harry, dark against the sky on the ribbed 
swell of the Street field, making his late sowings with 
the new boy at his heels. Up and down the furrows went 
Harry, with his head hung low, in his ears the mutter of 
the guns, so faint on the windless April noon that he 
sometimes thought they were just the sorrowful beating 
of his own heart — up and down, scattering seed into the 
earth, leaving his token of life in the fields he loved be- 
fore he was himself taken up and cast, vital and insignifi- 
cant as a seed, into the furrows of Aceldama or the 
Field of Blood. . . . 

Mus’ Beatup sat crouched over the fire, the tears every 
now and then welling up in his eyes, and sometimes over- 
flowing on his cheeks, whence he wiped them away with 
the back of his hand. “ ’Tis enough to maake a man 
taake to drink,” he muttered to himself — “ this is wot 


270 


THE FOUR ROADS 


drives men to drink, surelye.” Every now and then he 
looked up at the clock. 

The clock struck twelve, and the Rifle Volunteer called 
over the fields : 

“ Come, farmer, and have a pot with me. You’ve lost 
a son in your War — there were no sons lost in mine, but 
pots of beer are good for joy or sorrow. Come and 
forget that boy for five minutes, how he looked and what 
he said to you, forget this War through which good yeo- 
men die out of their beds, and drink with the Volunteer, 
who drilled and marched and camped and did every other 
warlike thing save fighting, and died between his sheets.” 

Mus’ Beatup groped for his stick. Then he shook his 
head rather sadly. “ The boy’s scarce cold in his grave. 
Reckon I mun wait a day or two before I disremember 
his last words to me.” 

Mrs. Beatup did not come home till after supper, and 
went to bed almost at once. She felt fagged and tottery, 
and there was a shrivelled, fallen look about her face. 
When she was in bed, she could not sleep, but lay watch- 
ing the moon travel across the room, lighting first the 
mirror, then the wall, then her own head, then maaster’s, 
then climbing away up the chimney like a ghost. Every 
now and then she fell into a little, light dose, so thridden 
with dreams that it was scarcely sleeping. 

In these dreams Tom was always a child, in her arms, 
or at her feet, or spanneliing about after the manner of 
small boys with tops and string. She did not dream of 
him as grown, and this was the basis of her new agree- 
ment with Thyrza. Thyrza could never think of him 
as a child, for she had never seen him younger than 
eighteen ; all her memories were concentrated in his few 
short years of manhood, and his childhood belonged to 
his mother. So his mother and his wife divided his 
memory up between them, and each thought she had the 
better part. 


MR. SUMPTION 


271 


Mrs. Beatup wondered if anyone — Bill Putland or 
Mus’ Archie — would write and tell her about Tom’s end. 
So far she had no idea how he had died, and her imagina- 
tion crept tearfully round him, asking little piteous ques- 
tions of the darkness — Had he suffered much? Had he 
asked for her? Had he wanted her? — Oh, reckon he had 
wanted her, and she had not been there, she had not 
known that he was dying, she had been pottering round 
after her household, cooking and washing up and sweep- 
ing and dusting, and thinking of him as alive and well, 
while all the time he was perhaps crying out for her in 
the mud of No Man’s Land. . . . 

The tears rolled down her cheeks in the darkness that 
followed the setting of the moon. Was it for this that 
she had borne him in hope and anguish? — that he should 
die alone, away from her, like a dog, in the mud? . . . 
She saw the mud, he had so often told her of it, she saw 
it sucking and oozing round him like the mud outside the 
cowhouse door ; she saw the milky puddles . . . she saw 
them grow dark and streaked with blood. Then, just as 
her heart was breaking, she pictured him in the bare clean 
ward of a hospital, as she had seen him at Eastbourne, 
with a kind nurse to relieve his last pain and take down 
his last little messages. Oh, someone was sure to write 
to Tom’s mother and tell her how he had died, and per- 
haps send her a message from him. 

The daylight crept into the room, stabbing like a finger 
under the blind, and with it her restlessness increased. 
Then a pool of sunshine gleamed at the side of the bed. 
She felt that she could not lie any longer, so climbed 
out slowly from under the blankets. She tried not to 
disturb her husband, but she was too unwieldy for a 
noiseless rising, and she heard him turn over and mutter, 
asking her what she meant by “ waaking a man to his 
trouble ” — then falling asleep again. 


272 


THE FOUR ROADS 


She went down to the kitchen, to find Harry, his eyes 
big and blurred with sleep, just going to set about his 
business in the yard. Moved by a quake of tenderness 
for this surviving son, she made him a cup of cocoa, and 
insisted on his drinking it before he went out to work. 
Then she did her own scrubbing with more care than 
usual — “ Reckon we must kip the farm up, now he’s 
agone.” Urged by the same thought she went out to 
the Dutch barn and mixed the chicken food, then opened 
the hen-houses, feeling in the warm nests for eggs. 

By now the sun was high, a big blazing pan slop- 
ping fire over the roofs and into the ponds. The air was 
full of sounds — crowings, cacklings, duckings, the scurry 
of fowls, the stamping of horses, and then the whining 
hiss of milk into zinc pails. Hoofs thudded in the lane, 
the call of a girl came from a distant field, all the country 
of the Four Roads was waking to life and work, faltering 
no more than light and darkness because one of its sons 
had died for the fields he used to plough. Wheels 
crunched in the drive, and then came the postman’s knock. 
Mrs. Beatup put down her trug of meal, and waddled off 
towards the house . . . perhaps a letter had come about 
Tom ; it was rather early yet, still, perhaps it had come. 

But Harry had already been to the door, and shook his 
head when she asked if there was anything for her. 

“ Thur’s naun.” 

“ Naun fur none of us? ” 

“ Only fur me.” 

She saw that he was carrying a long, official-looking 
envelope, and that his hand was clenched round it, as if 
he held a knife. 

“ Wot’s that?” 

“ My calling-up paapers.” 


MR. SUMPTION 


273 


3 

Tom was not the only local casualty that week. 
Bourner heard of the death of his eldest son, a youth 
who had somehow squeezed himself out to the front at 
the age of seventeen; the baker at Bodle Street lost his 
lad, Stacey Collbran of Satanstown had died of wounds, 
and the late postman at Brownbread Street was reported 
missing. All these had been struck down together on 
the ravaged hills round Wytschaete, where the Eighteenth 
Sussex had for long hours held a trench which the 
German guns had pounded to a furrow. In this furrow 
the body of Tom Beatup lay with the bodies of other 
Sussex chaps, hostages to shattered Flanders earth for 
the inviolate Sussex fields. 

Mrs. Beatup heard about it from Mus’ Archie, who 
wrote, as she had expected, while Bill Putland wrote to 
Thyrza. Tom had been shot through the head. His 
death must have been painless and instantaneous, the 
Lieutenant told his mother. Then he went on to say how 
much they had all liked Tom in the platoon, how popular 
he had been with the men and how the officers had appre- 
ciated his unfailing good-humour and reliableness. “ All 
soldiers grumble, as you probably know, but I never met 
one who grumbled less than Beatup ; and you could 
always depend on him to do what was wanted. We shall 
all miss him more than I can say, but he died bravely in 
open battle, and we all feel very proud of him.” 

“ Proud ” — that was the word they were all throwing 
at her now : Mus’ Archie, the curate, even the minister. 
They said, “ You must be very proud of Tom,” just as 
if all the age-old instincts of her breed did not generate 
a feeling of shame for one who died out of his bed. Good 
yeomen died between their sheets, and her son had died 
out in the mud, like a sheep or a dog — and yet she must 
be proud of him ! 


274 


THE FOUR ROADS 


Thyrza was proud — she said as much between her 
tears. She said that Tom had died like a hero, fighting 
for his wife and his child. 

“ He died for England,” said Mr. Poullett-Smith. 

“ He died for Sunday Street,” said the Rev. Mr. Sump- 
tion. “ I reckon that as his eyestrings cracked he saw the 
corner by the Forge and the oasts of Egypt Farm.” 

It appeared that Tom had died for a great many things, 
but in her heart Mrs. Beatup guessed that it was really 
a very little thing that he had died for — 

“ Reckon all he saw then wur our faaces,” she said to 
herself. 

As there had been so many local deaths, both now and 
during the winter, it struck the curate to hold a memorial 
service in the church at Brownbread Street. He knew 
how the absence of a funeral, of any possibility of paying 
mortuary honour to the loved ones, would add to the grief 
of those left behind. So he hastily summoned a pro- 
testing and bewildered choir to practise JEterna Christi 
Mitnera , and announced a requiem for the following 
Friday. 

Mr. Sumption saw in this one more attempt of the 
church to “ get the pull over him,” and resolved to con- 
test the advantage. He too would have a memorial 
service, conducted on godly Calvinistic lines ; there should 
be no Popish prayers for the dead or vain confidence in 
their eternal welfare, just a sober recollection before God 
and preparation for judgment. 

It was perhaps a tacit confession of weakness that Mr. 
Sumption did not offer this attraction as a rival to the 
Church service, but planned to have it later in the same 
day, so that those with a funeral appetite could attend 
both. Experience had taught him that what he had to 
depend on was not so much his flock's conviction as their 
lack of conviction. The Particular Baptists in Sunday 


MR. SUMPTION 


275 


Street, those, that is to say, who for conscience’ sake 
would never worship outside the Bethel, would not fill 
two pews. He depended for the rest of his congregation 
on the straying sheep of Ecclesia Anglicana, of the Wes- 
leyans, Primitive Methodists, Ebenezers, Bible Christians, 
Congregationalists, and other sects that stuck tin roofs 
about the parish fields. 

It occurred to him that perhaps now was his great 
chance to scatter the rival shepherds, so made his prepa- 
rations with elaborate care, boldly facing the handicaps 
his conscience imposed by forbidding him to use decora- 
tions, anthems, or instrumental music. He even had a 
few handbills printed at his own expense, and canvassed a 
hopeful popularity by rightly diagnosing the complaint 
of some sick ewes belonging to Mus’ Putland. 

4 

On Thursday evening he sat in his room at the Horse- 
lunges, preparing his sermon. Of course his sermons 
were not written, but he took great pains with their 
preparation under heads and points. He felt that this 
occasion demanded a special effort, and it was unfortu- 
nate that he felt all muddled and crooked, his thoughts 
continually springing away from their discipline of 
heads and racing off on queer adventures, scarcely agree- 
able to Calvinistic theology. 

He thought of those dead boys, some of whom he knew 
well and others whom he knew but slightly, and he pic- 
tured them made perfect by suffering, buying themselves 
the Kingdom of Heaven by their blood. He knew that 
his creed gave him no right to do so — Christ died for the 
elect, and no man can squeeze his way into salvation by 
wounds and blood. And yet these boys were crucified 
with Christ. . . . He saw all the crosses of Flanders, a 
million graves. . . . Perhaps there was a back way to 


276 


THE FOUR ROADS 


the Kingdom, a path of pain and sacrifice by which sin- 
ners won the gate. . . . 

He rebuked himself, and bent again to his work. The 
setting sun poured in from the west, making the little 
room, with its faded, peeling walls, and mangy furniture, 
a tub of swimming light. Mr. Sumption had got down 
to his Fourthly when his thoughts went off again, and 
this time after a boy who was not dead. It was a couple 
of months since he had heard from Jerry, and the letter 
had been unsatisfactory, though by this time he should 
have learned not to expect so much from Jerry’s letters. 
He lifted his head from the paper with a sigh, and, chin 
propped on hand, gazed out of the window to where bars 
of heavy crimson cloud reefed the blue bay of light. He 
remembered an evening nearly a year ago, when he and 
Jerry had sat by the window of a poor lodging-house 
room in Kemp Town, and felt nearer to each other than 
before in their lives. . . . 

“ Reckon he can’t help it — reckon he’s just a vessel of 
wrath.” 

He bit his tongue as a cure for weakness, and for 
another ten minutes bobbed and fumed over his notes. 
The sermon was not going well. He had taken for his 
text: “ Let ail the inhabitants of the land tremble: for 
the day of the Lord cometh, for it is nigh at hand ; a 
day of darkness and of gloominess, a day of clouds and 
of thick darkness, as the morning spread upon the moun- 
tains.” He told the congregation that their grief for 
the death of these young men was but part of the uni- 
versal woe, a spark of that furnace which should devour 
the world. Melting together in Doomsday fires the Book 
of Revelation and the Minor Prophets, he pointed out 
how the Scriptures had been fulfilled . . . the Beast, 
the False Prophet, the Army from the North, the Star 
called Wormwood, the Woman on Seven Hills, the Vision 


MR. SUMPTION 


277 


of Four Horns, the Crowns of Joshua, the Flying Roll, 
all these were in the world to-day, Signs in the rolling 
clouds of smoke that poured from the burning fiery fur- 
nace, where only the Children of God could walk un- 
harmed. “ And the Sign of the Son of Man shall be 
in the heavens. . . 

Here it was that again his thoughts became treach- 
erous to his theme. Instead of the Sign of the Son of 
Man appearing in the heavens, he seemed to see it rising 
out of the earth, the crosses on the million graves of 
Flanders. Could it be that Christ was already come? 
. . . come in the brave and patient sufferings of boys, 
who died that the world might live ? . . . “ It is expedient 
that one man should die for the people.” He drove away 
the thought as a blasphemy, and stooped once more to his 
paper, while his finger rubbed under the lines of his big 
Bible beside him. 

“ Sixthly: The Crowns of Joshua. Satan at his right 
hand. ‘ The Lord rebuke thee, O Satan/ The promise 
of the Branch. The promise of the Temple. But all 
must first be utterly destroyed. ‘ I will utterly consume 
all things, saith the Lord/ Don’t think the War will end 
before everything is destroyed. ‘ That day is a day of 
wrath, a day of trouble and distress, a day of wasteness 
and desolation, a day of darkness and gloominess, a day 
of clouds and thick darkness/ The hope of the Elect. 
‘ I will bring the third part through fire/ ...” 

There was the rattle and jar of crockery outside the 
door, and the next minute Mrs. Hubble kicked it open, 
and brought in the minister’s supper of bread and cocoa. 
She set it down, ruthlessly sweeping aside his books and 
paper, and then took a telegram out of her apron pocket. 

“ This has just come, and the girl’s waiting for an 
answer.” 

Telegrams came only on one errand in the country of 



278 


THE FOUR ROADS 


the Four Roads, and Mrs. Hubble felt sure that this was 
to announce either the wounds or death of Jerry. It is 
true that he might be coming home on leave, but in that 
case she reckoned he would never trouble to send a tele- 
gram — he would just turn up, and give her his room to 
sweep and his bed to make all on the minute. 

She narrowly watched the minister as he read it — if it 
brought bad news she would like to be able to give the 
village a detailed account of his reception of it. But he 
made no sign — only struck her for the first time as look- 
ing rather stupid. It was queer that she had never 
noticed before what a heavy, blunted kind of face he 
had. 

“ Any answer? ” 

He shook his head, and put the telegram face down- 
wards on the tray. Mrs. Hubble flounced out and banged 
the door. 

For some minutes after she had gone Mr. Sumption 
sat motionless, his arm dangling at his sides, his eyes fixed 
rather vacantly on the steam rising from the cocoa- jug. 
The sun had dipped behind the meadow-hills of Bird-in- 
Eye, and only a few red, fiery rays glowed on the ceil- 
ing. Mr. Sumption picked up the telegram and read it 
again. 

“ Deeply regret to inform you that Private J. M. 
Sumption has died at the front.” 

He felt weak, boneless, as if his joints had been smitten 
asunder. Something hot and heavy seemed to press down 
his skull. He could not think, and yet the inhibition was 
not a respite, but a torment. His ears sang. Every now 
and then he tried pitifully to collect himself, but failed. 
Jerry dead . . . Jerry dead . . . then suddenly his head 
fell forward on his hands, and he began to cry, first 
weakly, then stormily, noisily, his whole body shaking. 

The sobs stopped as suddenly as they had begun, but 


MR. SUMPTION 


279 


the brain-pressure had been relieved, and he could now 
think a little. He saw, as from a great way off, himself 
before the telegram came — he saw that as he planned 
that memorial service, prepared that elegiac sermon, there 
had run in his veins a fiery, subtle pride that he, at least, 
was father of a living man. He had not seen it at the 
time, but he saw it now — now that his pride had been 
trampled and he himself was in the same abyss with the 
souls he was to comfort. He too was father of the 
dead; Jerry was dead — at last and for ever beyond the 
reach of his help, his efforts, even his prayers . . . the 
son of the woman from Ihornden. 

The room was almost in darkness now ; fiery lights 
moved and shifted, and by their glow he read the tele- 
gram over again, for at the bottom of his heart was 
always a sick, insane thought that he must be mistaken, 
that this blow could not have fallen, that jerry must still 
be somewhere alive and up to no good. But the message 
was there, and now on this third reading, he noticed 
something peculiar about the phrasing of it — “ Private 
Sumption has died at the front.” Surely this was not the 
usual form of announcement. He had seen several such 
messages of woe, and they had read “ killed in action ” 
or “ died of wounds.” He had never seen one put exactly 
like this. 

However, it was not of any real importance. Jerry was 
dead ; that was the only vital, necessary fact. But he 
would write to Mus’ Archie for particulars. . . . The 
lamp was on the table, and he lit it, pushing aside the 
unused supper-tray and the littered sermon-paper. 

5 

He wrote on into the night. He found a certain 
crookedness in his ideas which made him tear up several 



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efforts — he once even found himself writing to Jerry, 
a proceeding which struck him with peculiar horror. 
The hours ticked on ; the big constellations swung 
solemnly across the uncurtained window (luckily Police- 
man was in bed, and did not see the lozenge of gold lamp- 
light that lay in Mrs. Hubble’s backyard). Inside the 
room the cat prowled to and fro, miaowling to be let out 
for a scamper on the barn-roofs — at last, he jumped on 
the table and, upsetting the cocoa, lapped his fill and 
retired to dignified repose. The mice tapped on the glass 
front of their cage with little pink hands like anemones. 
. . . Mr. Sumption for once did not notice his animals; 
he sat brooding over the table long after he had finished 
writing. Then, as the sky was fading into light, and big 
greyish-white clouds like mushrooms were banking 
towards the east, he dropped asleep, his head fallen over 
the back of his chair, with the mouth a little open, his 
arms hanging at his sides. 

The daylight fought with the lamplight, and as with 
a sudden crimson rift it won the victory, Mr. Sumption 
woke — from dreams full of the roaring of a forge and his 
own arm swung above his head, as in the old days at 
Bethersden. He sat for a few moments rubbing his eyes, 
feeling very stiff and cold. Then he realised that he was 
hungry. The supper-tray was still before him, swimming 
in cocoa. He ate the bread — dry, because the minister 
was one of those greedy souls who devour their week’s 
ration of butter in the first three days, and neither jam 
nor cheese was to be had in Sunday Street, even if he 
could have afforded them. When he had eaten all the 
bread, he began to feel thirsty. He longed for a cup of 
tea. Overhead in the attic there was a trampling, which 
told him that Mrs. Hubble would soon be down to boil 
the kettle. He hung about the stairhead till she appeared 
— shouting back at her father-in-law, who would not get 


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up, and generally in a bad mood for her lodger's service. 

However, to his surprise, she was quite obliging — he 
did not know what his night had made of him. She 
hurried down to the kitchen to light the fire, and bade 
him come too and warm himself. Mr. Sumption would 
have preferred to be alone, but he was beginning to feel 
very cold, and a kind of weakness was upon him, so he 
came and sat by her fire, and drank gratefully the big, 
strong cup of tea she gave him. 

“ You've had bad news of Mus’ Jerry, I reckon," 
said Mrs. Hubble. 

Mr. Sumption nodded, and warmed his hands round 
the cup. He could not bring himself to say that Jerry 
was dead. 

“ This is a tar’ble war," continued Mrs. Hubble, “ and 
I reckon those are best off wot are put out of it " — this 
was to find out what really had happened to Jerry. “ I 
often think," she added piously, “of the happy lot of the 
dead — no more trouble, no more pain, no more worriting 
after absent friends, no more standing in queues. I often 
think, minister, as it’s a pity we aun’t all dead." 

“ Maybe, maybe," said Mr. Sumption. 

He rose and walked restlessly out of the kitchen. He 
both wanted companionship and yet could not bear it. 
When would the day end — the day that streamed and 
blew and shone over Jerry’s grave? . . . He was going 
upstairs, when he heard a shuffle of paper behind him, 
and saw that a letter had been pushed under the door. 
The post came early to Sunday Street, and Mr. Sumption 
ran down again, full of an eager, futile hope. The letter 
bore the familiar field postmark, and at first he thought 
it was from Jerry, and that he was going to suffer that 
rending, ecstatic agony of reading letters from the dead. 
But as he picked it up he saw that the writing was not 
Jerry’s, but in a hand he did not know. Whose could it 


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be? — whosoever it was must be writing about his son. 
He tore it open as he went up to his room, and at the 
bottom of the folded paper saw, “ Yours, with sincerest 
sympathy, Archibald Lamb/' 

Of course, it was Mr. Archie — writing to Jerry’s father 
as he had written to Tom’s mother. The minister had 
had very little to do with the Squire, except on one 
occasion, when he had met him riding home from a day’s 
hunting, on a badly-lamed horse, and had applied a 
fomentation which Mr. Archie said had worked a won- 
derful cure. Now there were two pages covered with 
his big, firm handwriting. Mr. Sumption pulled them out 
of the envelope, and from between them a grimy piece of 
paper fell to the ground, scrawled over with the familiar 
smudge of indelible pencil. 

Mr. Sumption grabbed it, letting Mr. Archie’s letter 
fall in its stead. As he began to read it, he wondered if 
it had been found on Jerry’s body — it was certainly more 
smeary and stained than usual. After he had read a 
little, he sat down in his chair. His hand shook, and he 
stooped his head nearer and nearer to the writing as if 
his sight were failing him. 

“ Dear Father, 

“ By the time you get this I will be out of the way 
of troubling you any more. I am in great trouble. Mr. 
Archie said perhaps not tell you, but I said I would 

rather you knew. It is like this. I kept away in 

last time we went up to the trenches, with a lady friend, 
you may have heard of. Beatup says he told you. Well, 
I am to be shot for it. I was court-martialled, and they 
said to be shot. Dear Father, this will make you very 
sorry, but it cannot be helped, and I am not worth it. 
I have been a very bad son to you, and done many wicked 
things besides. Things always were against me. Mr. 


MR. SUMPTION 


283 


Archie has been very kind, and so has the pardry here. 
Mr. Archie is sitting with me to-night, and he says he 
will stay all night, as I am feeling very much upset at 
this great trouble. I am leaving you my ring made out 
of a piece of Zep and my purse, only I am afraid there 
is no money in it. Please remember me to Ivy Beatup, 
and say if it had not been for her I should not be here 
now. I think that is all. 

“ Ever your loving son, 

“ Jeremiah Meridian Sumption. 

“ P.S. — The pardry says Jesus will forgive my sins. 
Thank you very much, dear father, for those fags you 
sent. I am smoking one now.” 

6 

It was nearly half an hour later that Mr. Sumption 
picked up Archie Lamb’s letter. It caught his eye at 
last as he stared at the floor, and he picked it up and 
unfolded it. Perhaps it would give him a grain of 
comfort. 

The lieutenant afterwards described it as the most 
sickening job he had ever had in his life. The usual 
letter of condolence and explanation, such as he had over 
and over again written to parents and wives, became an 
easy task compared with this. Here he had to deal not 
only with sorrow, but with disgrace. He could not write, 
as he had so often written, “ We are proud of him.” 
He could not refer back with congratulations to a good 
record — Jerry had died as he had lived, a bad soldier, a 
disgrace to the uniform he wore, and there seemed very 
little that could be decently said about him. 

However, the innate kind-heartedness and good feeling 
of the young officer pulled him successfully through an 
ordeal that would have staggered many better wits. He 


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began by explaining his reluctance, and that he was writ- 
ing only because Jerry wished it — though, perhaps, it 
was better, after all, that his father should know the 
truth. “ As a matter of fact, it is not so dreadful as it 
sounds. Your son is not to die so much as a punishment 
as a warning. The shooting of deserters is chiefly a 
deterrent — and your son is dying so that other men may 
be warned by his fate to stick to the ranks and do their 
duty as soldiers ; therefore you may say that, indirectly, 
he is dying for his country. Moreover, his disappearance 
was not due to cowardice, but to other reasons which you 
probably know of. I don’t know if this mitigates it to 
you, it certainly does to me. Sumption is not a coward. 
I have seen him in action, and I repeat that he is as 
plucky as any one. 

“ I am sitting with him now, and I want to make your 
mind easy about the end. When I have finished writing 
this he will be given his supper, food and a hot drink. 
Then he will go to sleep. He will be roused just ten 
minutes before the time, and hurried off, still half-asleep 
— he will never be quite awake. There will be no awful 
apprehension and agony, such as I expect you imagine — 
please don’t worry about that. 

“ I have not been able to get him a padre of his own 
church, but a very good Congregational man has been 
with him, and has, of course, respected your convictions 
in every way. 

“ Now before I end up, I want to say again that it 
isn’t really as bad as it looks — the disgrace, I mean. 
Think of your son as having died so that other men 
should take warning by him and not desert the ranks, 
and therefore, in that sense he has died for his country.” 

Then Archie Lamb asked Mr. Sumption to write to 
him if there was anything more he wanted to know, and 
said that he would forward Jerry’s purse and ring at the 


MR. SUMPTION 


285 


first opportunity. After the signature was added : “ It 
is all over now, and happened as I told you. He was still 
half asleep, and suffered practically nothing.” 

7 

For some minutes Mr. Sumption sat with his head 
buried in his hands. Before his closed eyes he saw pass 
the last pitiful act of Jerry’s tragedy. He saw him stand- 
ing defiant and furtive — he would always look defiant 
and furtive, even if half awake — with his back to the 
wall . . . then — cr-r-rack! — and he would fall down at 
the foot of it in a crumpled heap, that perhaps still moved 
a little. . . . But he had suffered nothing . . . practically 
nothing. . . . 

Then he saw Jerry standing all his life with his back 
to a wall, every man armed against him. He had but 
died as he had lived. Even his own father had been 
against him, had misused and misunderstood him. There 
had never been anyone to understand that mysterious, 
troubled heart, anyone who could have understood it — 
except, perhaps, Meridian Hearn, his mother— and that 
queer people of defiant furtive ways, whose dark blood 
had run in his veins and been his ruin. Meridian Hearn 
should not have married the gaitjo preacher from Beth- 
ersden — she should have married one of her own race, 
and then her child would have lived among those of like 
passions as he, and not among strangers, who had mobbed 
him and pecked his eyes out, like sparrows attacking a 
foreign bird. 

“ Oh, Meridian, Meridian! — our boy’s dead. ...” 

There was the familiar clatter and kick outside the 
door, and Mrs. Hubble came in with the breakfast tray. 
Her face was crimson and very much excited, though she 
tried to work it into lines of woe; for she had at last 


286 


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heard the news about Jerry, from Gwen Bourner, who 
had heard it from Mrs. Bill Putland, who had had a 
letter from her husband that morning. All Sunday 
Street now knew that Jerry Sumption had been shot as 
a deserter, having given the 18th Sussex the slip on the 
eve of the action in which Tom Beatup and Fred Bourner 
and Stacey Collbran and other local boys had given up 
their limbs and lives — he had gone to a French woman, 
and been found in a blouse and wooden shoes. The 
platoon would not miss him much, Bill Putland said; 
but he was unaccountable sorry for his father. 

So, to do her justice, was Mrs. Hubble. She had put 
an extra spoonful of tea in his teapot, and had boiled 
him an egg, a luxury which was not included in his board- 
ing fees. Moreover, she gave him a pitying glance, as 
she swept the litter of sermon-paper to one side. 

“Will you want me to tell people ?” she asked him. 

“Tell people what?” His voice came throatily, like 
an old man’s. 

“Well, I reckon you woan’t be preaching to-night?” 

Something in her voice made him start up, and pull 
himself together. He saw her squinting compassionately 
at him, with the corner of her apron in readiness. 

“ Preach ! — Why do you ask that? ” 

“ I’ve heard about your loss. I reckon you woan’t be 
feeling in heart for preaching.” 

He did not reply. 

“ I cud easy stick up a notice on the chapel door,” 
she continued, “ and all the folkses hereabouts ud under- 
stand. They’d never expect you to spik after wot’s 
happened.” 

“ Woman ! — what has happened? ” 

He spoke so suddenly and so loudly, that Mrs. Hubble 
started, and dropped the corner of her apron. 

“ I — I . . . well, we’ve all of us heard, Mus’ Sump- 
tion. ...” 


MR. SUMPTION 


287 


“ Heard what ? ” 

“ I — I . . . Doan’t look at me like that, minister, for 
the Lord’s sake.” 

“ Speak then. What have you all heard? ” 

Mrs. Hubble was recovering from her alarm and be- 
ginning to resent his manner. 

“ Well, reckon we’ve heard wot you’ve heard — as your 
boy’s bin shot fur deserting his regiment; and no one 
expects you to come and preach in chapel after that.” 
A wave of burning crimson went over Mr. Sumption’s 
face, so that Mrs. Hubble said afterwards she thought as 
he’d go off in a stroke. Then he was suddenly white 
again, and speaking quietly, but in a voice that some- 
how frightened her more than his shouting. 

“ I shall certainly preach to-night. I will not have the 
service cancelled. Tell everyone who asks you that I shall 
certainly preach.” 

“ Very good, sir.” 

She edged towards the door. 

“ Mrs. Hubble ! Stop a moment. Say this, too. I 
am not ashamed of my son. I reckon you all think I am 
ashamed of him, and you are putting your heads together 
and clacking, and pitying me for it. But I am not 
ashamed. He died for England. Mr. Archie himself 
says it. These are his very words: Wait!” — for Mrs. 
Hubble was going to bolt. 

“ I’m waiting, Mus’ Sumption.” 

“ He says, ‘ Think of your son as having died so that 
other men should take warning by him and not desert 
the ranks, and, therefore, in that sense he has died for 
his country.’ Do you understand ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Then you can go.” 

Mrs. Hubble fled. 


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8 

All that morning heavy pacings over her head con- 
vinced Mrs. Hubble that the minister was preparing a 
wonderful sermon. She generally guessed the temper of 
his discourse by the weight and width of the stumpings 
which preceded it. To-day she could hear him, as she 
expressed it, all over the room ... he was kicking the 
fire-irons ... he had overturned his chair ... he had 
flung up the window and banged it down again. Ob- 
viously something great was in process, and at the same 
time she felt that Mr. Sumption was rather mad. It 
was nothing short of indecent for him to preach to-night, 
after what had happened — and the queer way he had 
spoken about Jerry, too. . . . 

By this time the whole of Sunday Street knew about 
Jerry. He was discussed at breakfast-tables, in barns, 
on doorsteps, on milking-stools. No one was surprised; 
indeed, most people seemed to have foretold his bad end. 
“ I said as he’d come to no good, that gipsy’s brat.” “ A 
valiant minister wot can’t breed up his own son.” “ How- 
sumdever, I’m middling sorry fur the poor chap ; I’ll 
never disremember how he saaved that cow of mine wot 
wur dying of garget.” “And I’m hemmed, maaster, if 
he wurn’t better wud my lambing ewes than my own 
looker, surelye.” 

On the whole, the news improved his chances of a con- 
gregation. It was a better advertisement than the notice 
on the church door, or even than his veterinary achieve- 
ment at Egypt Farm. Some “ wanted to see how he took 
it,” others openly admired his pluck ; all were stirred by 
curiosity and also by compassion. During the years he 
had lived among them he had grown dear to them and 
rather contemptible. They looked down on him for his 
shabbiness, his poverty, his pastoral blundering, his lack 


MR. SUMPTION 


289 


of education ; but they liked him for his willingness, his 
simplicity, his sturdy good looks, his strong muscles, his 
knowledge of cattle and horses. 

All that morning people wavered up the street towards 
the Horselunges, and looked at it, and at the Bethel. 
Sometimes they gathered together in little groups, but 
always some way off. The Bethel stared blindly over 
the roof of the Horselunges, as if it ignored the misery 
huddled at its doors. No matter what might be the pri- 
vate sorrows of its servant, he must come to-night and 
preach within its walls those iron doctrines of Doomsday 
and Damnation in whose honour it had been built and 
had stood staring over the fields with the blind eyes of a 
corpse for a hundred years. 

Towards noon Thyrza Beatup came up the street, 
walking briskly, with her weeds flapping behind her. It 
was the first time she had been out since her widowing, 
and people stared at her from their doors as she walked 
boldly up to Horselunges and knocked. 

“How is poor Mus’ Sumption ?” she asked Mrs. 
Hubble. 

“ Lamentaable, lamentaable,” said Mrs. Hubble, with 
eye and apron in conjunction. 

“ Well, please tell him as Mrs. Tom Beatup sends her 
kind remembrances and sympathy, and she reckons she 
knows wot he feels, feeling the saum herself.” 

“ Very good, Mrs. Beatup.” 

“ And you’ll be sure and give it all wot I said — about 
feeling the saum myself? ” 

“ Oh, sartain.” 

Thyrza walked off. Her face was very white and 
wooden. Mrs. Hubble stared after her. 

“ Middling pretty as golden-haired women look in them 
weeds. . . . Feels the saum as Mus’ Sumption, does she? 
That’s Queer, seeing as Tom died lik Onward Christian 


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Soldiers, and Jerry lik a dog. Howsumdever, I mun give 
her words . . . maybe he’ll be fool enough to believe 
them.” 

The day was warm and misty, without much sun. The 
sky above the woods was yellowish, like milk, and the air 
smelt of rain. But the rain did not come till evening. 
Mr. Poullett-Smith’s congregation assembled dry, and 
nobody’s black was spoiled on the way home. In spite 
of this, the service was not thickly attended. The ad- 
vertisement which Jerry Sumption’s death had given the 
Bethel made those who had time or inclination for only 
one church-going decide to put it off until the evening. 
Only a few assembled to hear the curate pray that the 
souls they commemorated — among which he was not 
afraid to include Jerry — might be brought by Saint 
Michael, the standard-bearer, into the holy light. 

On the other hand, the Bethel was crowded, and by 
this time it was raining hard. The air was thick with the 
steaming of damp clothes. The lamps shuddered and 
smoked in the draught of the rising wind, and the big, 
blinded windows were running down with rain, as if they 
wept for the destruction of the chapel weed. . . . 

Never had the Rev. Mr. Sumption such a congregation. 
Nearly the whole of Sunday Street jostled in the pews. 
Instead of the meagre peppering of heads, there were 
tight rows of them, like peas in pods. All the Beatups 
were there, except Nell, who had stayed at home to look 
after the house ; even Mus’ Beatup had hobbled over on 
his stick. The Putlands were there, and Mrs. Bill Put- 
land, and the Sindens and the Bourners and the Hubbles. 
Thyrza had come, with little Will asleep in her arms — she 
sat near the back, in case she should have to take him out. 
The Hollowbones had come from the Foul Mile and the 
Kadwells from Stilliands Tower ; there were Collbrans 
from Satanstown, Viners from Puddledock, Ades from 


MR. SUMPTION 


291 


Bodle Street, and even stragglers from Brownbread 
Street and Dallington. Most of them had never been in 
the Bethel before, and it struck them as unaccountable 
mean, with its smoking lamps and windows flapping with 
dingy blinds, its pews that smelled of wood-rot, and its 
walls all peeled and scarred with moisture and decay. 

There was a rustle and scrape as Mr. Sumption came 
in, through the little door behind the pulpit. Then there 
was silence as he stood looking down, apparently un- 
moved, on what must have been to him an extraordinary 
sight — his church crowded, full to the doors, as he had 
so often dreamed, but never seen. He looked pale and 
languid, and his eyes were like smoky lanterns. His voice 
also seemed to have lost its ring as he gave out the number 
of the psalm, and then in the prayer which followed it. 
Moreover, though the congregation, being mostly new, 
shuffled and kicked its heels disgracefully, he thumped at 
no one. 

“ Pore soul, he shudn’t ought to have tried it,” thought 
Thyrza to herself in her corner. “ He’ll never get 
through.” 

After the prayer, which was astonishingly nerveless for 
a prayer of Mr. Sumption’s, came a hymn, during which 
the minister sat in the pulpit, his hand over his face. 
Those in the front rows saw his jaws work as if he was 
praying. People whispered behind their Bibles — “ He’s 
different, surelye — just lik a Church parson to-night.” 
“ Reckon it’s changed him — knocked all the beans out of 
him, as you might say.” “ Pore chap, he looks middling 
tired — reckon he finds this a tar’ble job.” 

Then the singing stopped, and Mr. Sumption stood up, 
wearily turning over the leaves of his big Bible. 

“ Brethren, you will find my text in the Eleventh of 
John, the fiftieth verse: ‘It is expedient that one man 
should die for the people.’ ” 


292 


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9 

The sermon began with the unaccustomed flatness of 
the rest of the service. Mr. Sumption’s voice had lost 
its resonance, his arms no longer waved like windmill- 
sails, nor did his joints crack like dried osiers. He made 
his points languidly on his fingers, instead of thumping 
them out on the pulpit with his fist. The congregation 
would have been disappointed if they had not known 
the reason for this slackness ; as things were, it was part 
of the spectacle. They noticed, too, a certain bitterness 
that crept into his speech now and then, as when he 
described the Chief Priests and Scribes plotting together 
to take refuge behind the sacrifice of Christ. “ It is 
expedient for us . . . that the whole nation perish not.” 
“ Brethren, I see them nodding their ugly beards to- 
gether, and saying : ‘ Let this young man go and die for 
us. One man must die for the people, and it shan’t be 
one of us, I reckon — we’re too important, we can’t be 
spared. Let us send this young man to his death. It is 
expedient that he should die for the nation.’ ” 

Then suddenly he stiffened his back, bringing his open 
Bible together with a thud, while his voice rang out with 
the old clearness : 

“ Reckon that was what you said among yourselves 
when you saw the young men we’re thinking of to-night 
go up before the Tribunal, or volunteer at the Recruiting 
Office. You said to yourselves, ‘ That’s right, that’s 
proper. It is expedient that these young men should 
go and die for the people. I like to see a young man 
go to fight for his country. I’m too old . . .I’ve got a 
bad leg . . . but I like to see the young men go.’ ” 

For a moment he stood and glared at them, as in the 
old days, his eyes like coals, his big teeth bared like a 
fighting dog’s. Then once again his weariness dropped 


MR. SUMPTION 293 

\ 

over him, his head hung, and his sentences ran together, 
husky and indistinct. 

The congregation shuffled and coughed. The service 
required peppermint-sucking to help it through, and owing 
to war conditions no peppermints were forthcoming. 
Zacky Beatup made a rabbit out of his handkerchief and 
slid it over the back of the pew at Lily Sinden. Mus’ 
Beatup began to calculate the odds against the Bethel 
closing before the Rifle Volunteer. Old Mus' Hollow- 
bone from the Foul Mile crossed his legs and went to 
sleep, just as if he was sitting with the Wesleyans. 
Then Maudie Sinden pulled a screw of paper out of her 
pocket and extracted a piece of black gum — the very piece 
she had taken out of her mouth on entering the chapel, 
knowing that no sweet had ever been sucked there since 
Tommy Bourner was bidden “ spue forth that apple of 
Sodom ” two years ago. Thyrza had never seen a con- 
gregation so demoralised, but then she had never seen a 
minister so dull, so drony, so lack-lustre, so lifeless. “ He 
shudn’t ought to have tried it, poor chap,” she murmured 
into the baby’s shawl. 

Then suddenly Mr. Sumption’s fist came down on his 
Bible. The pulpit lamps shuddered, and rattled their 
glass shades, and the congregation started into postures 
of attention, as the minister glared up and down the rows 
of heads in the pod-like pews. 

“ Reckon you’ve no heart for the Gospel to-day,” he 
said severely. “ Pray the Lord to change your hearts, 
as He changed my sermon. This is not the sermon I 
had meant to preach to you, and if you don’t like it, it 
is the Lord’s doing. I had for my text : ‘ The day of 
the Lord is at hand, as the morning spread upon the 
mountains.’ That was my text, and I had meant to warn 
you all of the coming of that day, as I have so often 
warned you. It is a day which shall burn like an oven, 


294 


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and the strong man shall cry therein mightily ; it is a day 
of darkness and gloominess, of clouds and thick dark- 
ness. Then I was going forward to show you how the 
Sign of the Son of Man shall be in the heavens, and how 
He shall appear in clouds with great glory. . . . But the 
Lord came then and smote me, and I lay as dead before 
Him, like Moses in the Mount. And when I came to 
myself, I knew that the Sign of the Son of Man is 
already with us here — not in heaven, but on earth — rising 
up out of the earth . . . over there in France — the 
crosses of the million Christs you have crucified.” 

They were all listening now. He could see their cran- 
ing, attentive faces, and their kicks and coughs had died 
down into a rather scandalised silence. 

“ The million Christs you have crucified, all those boys 
you sent out to die for the people. You sent them in 
millions to die for you and for your little children, and 
their blood shall be on you and on your children. Oh, 
you stiff-necked and uncircumcised — talking of Judg- 
ment as if it was a great way off, and behold it is at your 
doors ; and the Christ Whom you look for has come sud- 
denly to His temple — in the suffering youth of this coun- 
try — all countries — in these boys who go out and suffer 
and die and bleed, cheerfully, patiently, like sheep — that 
the whole nation perish not. 

“ Think of the boys you have sent, the boys we’re 
specially remembering here to-day. There was Tom 
Beatup — a good honest lad, simple and clean as a little 
child. He went out to fight for you, but I reckon you 
never woke up in your comfortable bed and said : 
‘ There’s poor Tom Beatup, up to the loins in mud, and 
freezing with cold, and maybe as empty as a rusty pail.’ 
The thought of him never spoiled your night’s rest, and 
you never felt, ‘ I’ve got to struggle tooth and nail to be 
worth his sacrificing himself like that for an old useless 


MR. SUMPTION 


295 


trug like me, and I’ll do my best to help my country at 
home in any way as it can be done, so as the War ull 
be shortened and Tom ull have a few nights less in the 
mud.’ That’s what you ought to have said, but I reckon 
you didn’t say it. 

44 There’s Stacey Collbran, too, who left a young 
sweetheart, and ull never know the love of wedded life 
because you had to be died for. Do you ever think of 
him when your wife lies in your bosom, and say, ‘ Reckon 
I’ll be good to my wife, since for my sake a poor chap 
never had his ’ ? 

“ And there’s Fred Bourner, and Sid Viner, and Joe 
Kadwell, and Leslie Ades — they all went out to die for 
you, and they died, and you come here to remember them 
to-night ; but in your hearts, which ought to be breaking 
with reverence and gratitude, you’re just saying, 4 It’s 
proper, it’s expedient that these men should die for the 
people, that the whole nation perish not.’ 

44 And there’s my boy. ...” 

The minister’s voice hung paused for a minute. He 
leaned over the pulpit, his hands gripping the wood till 
their knuckles stood out white from the coarse brown. 
His eyes travelled up and down the pew-pods of staring 
heads, as if he expected to see contradiction or mockery 
or surprise. But the Sunday Street face is not expressive, 
and except for the utter stillness, Mr. Sumption might 
have been reading the chapel accounts. 

44 There’s my boy, Jerry Sumption. Maybe you thought 
I wouldn’t talk of him to-night, that I’d be ashamed, that 
I’d never dare mention his name along of your gallant 
boys. Besides, you say, what’s he got to do with it? 
Fie never died for the people. But you thought wrong. 
I’m not ashamed to speak his name along of Tom and 
Stace and Fred and Sid and Joe, and he hasn’t got noth- 
ing to do with it, either. For I tell you — my boy died fot 


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your boys. He died as an example and warning to them, 
to save them from a like fate, and if that isn’t dying for 
them. . . . These are Mr. Archie Lamb’s very words: 
‘ Your son is dying so that other men may be warned by 
his fate and stick to the ranks and do their duty as sol- 
diers ; therefore, in that sense he has died for his coun- 
try.’ I reckon it seems a big thing to shoot a boy just 
for going off to see his girl when the company’s march- 
ing; but if it weren’t done then other boys ud stop away 
and the regiment go to pieces. Mr. Archie and the other 
officers said, 4 It is expedient that one man should die for 
the regiment, that the whole army perish not.’ . . . 

“ No! I am not ashamed of my boy! If he was led 
astray at the last moment by his evil, human passions, 
who shall judge him? — Not I, and not you. He did not 
desert because he was a coward, because he funked the 
battle before him. Listen again to Mr. Archie Lamb ; 
he says, ‘ Sumption is not a coward — I have seen him 
in action, and I repeat that he is as plucky as any one.’ 
And he joined up as a volunteer, too — he didn’t have to 
be fetched, he didn’t go before the Tribunal and say he’d 
got a bad leg, or a bad arm, and his father couldn’t run 
the business without him. He joined up out of free-will 
and love of his country. The Army was no place for 
him, for his blood was the blood of the Rossarmescroes 
or Hearns, which knows not obedience. When he joined 
he risked his life not only at the hands of the enemy but 
at the hands of his own countrymen, and it is his own 
countrymen that have put him to death, ‘ that the whole 
nation perish not.’ 

“ I tell you, my boy died for your boys ; my boy died 
for you, and you shall not look down on his sacrifice. 
Over his grave is the Sign of the Son of Man, Who gave 
His life as a ransom for many. To save your boys from 
the possibility of a disgrace such as his my boy died in 


MR. SUMPTION 


297 


shame. When they see the grave of Jerry Sumption they 
will say: ‘ That is the grave of a man who died because 
he could not obey laws or control passions, because he 
was not master of his own blood. Therefore let us take 
heed by him and walk warily, and do our duty as sol- 
diers ; and if we must die, not die as he died. . . . ’ So 
my son died for your sons, and my son and your sons 
died for you ; and I ask you : ‘ Are you worth dying 
for? ’ ” 

Again the minister was silent, staring down at the 
rows of wooden, expressionless faces, now faintly a-sweat 
in the steam and heat of the Bethel. Then suddenly he 
burst out at them, loudly, impatiently: 

“ I’ll tell you the truth about yourselves; Til tell you 
if you're worth dying for. What has this War meant to 
you? What have you done for this War? There’s just 
one answer to both questions. Nothing. While men were 
fighting for their own and your existence, while they were 
suffering horrors out there in France which you can’t 
think of, and if you could think of could not speak of, 
you were just muddling about there in your little ways, 
thinking of nothing but crops and prices and the little silly 
inconveniences you had to put up with. Ho! I reckon 
you never thought of the War, except when you got some 
cheery letter from your boy, telling you he was having the 
time of his life out there, or when the price of bread 
went up, or you had to eat margarine instead of butter, 
or you couldn’t get your Sunday joint. All that war 
meant to you was new orders about lights, and tribunals 
taking your farmhands, and prices going up and food 
getting scarce, and the War Agricultural Committee leav- 
ing Cultivation orders. And all the time you grumbled 
and groused, and wrote out to your boys that you were 
dying of want, weakening their hearts — they who wrote 
you kind and cheery letters out of the gates of hell. You 


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stiff-necked and uncircumcised in heart and ears ! You 
little, little souls, that only bother about the little concerns 
of your little parish in the middle of this great woe. The 
end of the world is come, and you know it not ; Christ 
is dying for you and you heed Him not. Are you worth 
dying for? Are you worth living for? No — you’re 
scarce worth preaching at.” 

By this time there were signs of animation among the 
pea-pods. The peas rolled from side to side, and a faint 
rustle of indignation came from them. 

“ I know why you’re here to-night,” continued Mr. 
Sumption. “ You’ve come to gaze on me, to watch me 
in my trouble, to see how I take it. You haven’t come to 
hear the Gospel — you yawned and wriggled all the time 
I was preaching it. You haven’t come just to think of 
the dead boys — you did that in church this morning. 
You’re here to gaze at me, to see how I take it. Well, 
now you see how I take it. You see I’m not ashamed. 
Why should I be ashamed of my son? He’s worth a 
bundle of you — he’s died a better death than anyone in 
this church is likely to die; and if he lived a vessel of 
wrath, at all events he was a full vessel, not just a jug 
of emptiness. He lived like the wild man he was born, 
and he died like a poor wild animal shot down. But I am 
not ashamed of him. And though he died without bap- 
tism, without conversion, without assurance, I cannot and 
I will not believe that he is lost. Somewhere the love of 
God is holding him. The Lord tells me that my father- 
hood is only a poor mess of His ; well, in that case, I 
reckon He won’t cast out my lad. Willingly I’d bear his 
sins for him, and so I reckon Christ will bear them even 
for the child of wrath. Where I can love, He can love 
more, and since He died as a felon, reckon He feels for 
my poor boy. He knows what it is to stand with His 
back to the wall and see every man’s hand raised against 


299 


MR. SUMPTION 

Him, and every man’s tongue stuck out. And because 
He knows, He understands, and because He understands, 
He forgives. Amen.” 

The windows of the Bethel shook mournfully in the 
wind, and the rain hissed down them, as if it shuddered 
and wept to hear such doctrine within its walls. But 
the sounds were lost in the shuffle of the rising congre- 
gation, standing up to sing the psalm. 

io 

That night the minister did not stand at the door to 
shake hands with the departing congregation. Beatups, 
Putlands, Sindens, Hubbles, Bourners, jostled their way 
unsaluted into the darkness, groping with umbrellas, 
fumbling into cloaks. But even the rain could not pre- 
vent an exchange of indignation. People formed them- 
selves into clumps and scurried together over the wet 
road. From every clump voices rose in expostulation and 
resentment. 

“ To think as I’d live to be insulted in church! ” 

“ Reckon he’d never dare say half that in a plaace 
whur folkses’ tongues wurn’t tied to answer him.” 

“ Maade out as we thought only of our insides,” said 
Mrs. Sinden. “ Seemingly he never thinks of his, when 
all the village knows he wur trying the other day to 
maake Mrs. Tom give him a tin of salmon fur ninepence 
instead of one-and-three.” 

“ And she did it, too,” said Mrs. Putland. 

“ It’s twice,” said Mrs. Beatup, “ as he called me stiff- 
necked and uncircumcised, and I reckon I aun’t neither.” 

“ And he said I wur lik an empty jug,” said Mus’ 
Beatup. 

“ And his Jerry’s worth a bundle of us,” laughed Mus’ 
Sinden. 


300 


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“ Wot vrothers me,” wheezed old Father-in-law 
Hubble, “ is that to the best of my hearing I heard him 
maake out as Christ died fur all.” 

“ And why shudn’t he? ” asked Mus’ Putland. 

“ Because Mus’ Sumption’s paid seventy pound a year 
to teach as Christ died for the Elect, and so he always 
has done till to-night.” 

“ Well, seemingly thur wurn’t much Elect in gipsy 
Jerry, so he had to change his mind about that. Reckon 
he had to git Jerry saaved somehow.” 

“ But he’d no call to chaange the Divine council — I’ve 
half a mind to write to the Assembly about it.” 

“ Wot sticks in my gizzard,” said Mus’ Bourner, “ is 
that to hear him you’d think as we’re all to blame for 
Jerry’s going wrong, while I tell you it’s naun but his 
own mismanaging and bad breeding-up of the boy. 
‘ Bring up a child in the way he should go, and when he 
is old he will not depart from it.’ That’s Bible, but it’s 
sense too. It’s all very praaper for Minister to stick by 
the young boy now and say he aun’t ashaumed of him, 
but if only he’d brought him up Christian and not spoiled 
him, reckon he’d never have bin called upon to stand thur 
and say it.” 

There were murmurs and assenting “ Surelyes.” 

“ He spoiled that boy summat tar’ble,” continued the 
smith. “ Cudn’t say No to him, and let him have his 
head justabout shocking. Then maybe he’d git angry 
when the young chap had disgraced him, and hit him 
about a bit. But thur aun’t no sense in that, nuther. 
Wot Jerry wanted wur a firm, light hand and no whip 
— and Mus’ Sumption ud have been the fust to see it if 
Jerry had bin a horse.” 

“Well, he’s got his punishment now,” said Mrs. Put- 
land. “ Poor soul, my heart bleeds for him.” 

“ Howsumdever, he’d no call to insult us,” said Mrs. 


MR. SUMPTION 301 

Sinden, “ and I fur one ull never set foot agaun in that 
Bethel as long as I live. ,, 

Thyrza Beatup did not walk with the others. Her 
grief was still too raw, and Mr. Sumption’s words about 
Tom had made her cry. She carried Will under her 
cloak, walking quickly over the wet ruts, home to the 
fire before which she would undress him and put him 
to bed. Mr. Sumption’s sermon had not had the same 
effect on her as on the others — for one thing, she thought 
of Tom more than of Jerry; for another, her feeling 
towards the minister was of pure compassion. Poor 
chap ! how he must have suffered, how he must have 
hated all those who mourned honourably, who grieved 
for heroes and saints, such as her Tom. What would 
she have felt, she wondered, if Tom had died like 
Jerry? . . . 

She wished she could have seen Mr. Sumption after 
the service, and asked him in to a bit of supper. Poor 
soul ! one could always comfort him through his inside. 
She was glad Tom had been to see him on his last leave 
... he had spoken very nicely of Tom. 

She came to the little house, all blurred into the dark- 
ness, with the rain scudding before it. A pale, blue light 
hung under the clouds from the hidden moon, and was 
faintly reflected in the gleaming wet of the roadway. 
Thyrza fumbled for her key, and let herself into the 
shop. The firelight leaped to meet her. As she turned 
to shut the door, she saw a man go quickly past, head 
sloped, shoulders hunched against the wind. 

ii 

Mr. Sumption felt he could not stay indoors — he could 
not bear the thought of sitting long hours, harassed and 
lonely, in that shabby, wind-thridden study of his, with 


302 


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the peeled wall-paper flapping in the draught and the 
rain cracking on the windows. Besides, he would have 
to face a personal encounter with Mrs. Hubble, and 
weather the storm of her wrath at being “ preached at ” ; 
more than once she had thought fit to give him a piece of 
her mind when the sermon had affronted her. The 
tongue of a scolding woman was an anti-climax he dared 
not face, so he let himself out of the little door at the 
back of the chapel, and, turning up his collar, marched 
away against the rain. 

He had no exact idea where he was going. All he 
knew was that he wanted to get away from Sunday 
Street, from the people who had come to stare at him 
in his trouble. A lump of rage rose in his throat and 
choked him, and tears of rage burned at the back of his 
eyes. He saw the rows of stolid faces, the greased heads, 
the stupid bonnets. There they had sat and wagged 
in judgment on him and his boy. There they had sat, 
the people who were content to be suffered and died 
for by the boys in Flanders, while they stayed at home 
and grumbled. Well, thank the Lord he had told them 
what they were ! Ho ! he had given it to them straight 
— he had made their ears burn ! 

He walked on and on, cracking his joints with fury. 
He had turned into the East Road at Pont’s Green, and 
was now hurrying southward, head down, to meet the 
gale. There was something in the flogging and whirling 
of the wind which stimulated him ; he found relief in 
pushing against the storm, in swallowing the rain that 
beat upon his lips and trickled down his face. He would 
walk till he was tired, and then he would find some 
sheltered place to go to sleep. Only through exhaustion 
could he hope to find sleep to-night. It would be horrible 
to lie and toss in stuffy sheets, while the darkness pressed 
down his eyeballs and at last the dawn crept mocking 


MR. SUMPTION 


303 


round the window. ... It did not matter if he stopped 
out all night; he did not care what people thought of 
him — he had burned his boats. 

The moon was still pale under the clouds, and the wet 
road gleamed like pewter. The hedges roared, as the 
wind moved in them, and every now and then he could 
hear the swish of a great tree, or the cracking and crying 
of a wood. In the midst of all this tumult he felt very 
lonely — if he passed a farm, with slats of lamplight under 
its blinds, he felt more lonely still. But it was better 
than the loneliness of a room, of the room to which some- 
one he loved would never come again. He had a sudden 
memory of Jerry as he had seen him, the morning after 
the boy’s own night out of doors, sitting like a monkey 
in the big wash-tub in front of the fire. . . . 

It must have been between two and three o’clock in 
the morning when Mr. Sumption found the road leading 
past the gape of a big barn. By this time his legs were 
aching with cold and wet, and his face felt all raw with 
the sting of the rain. It would be good to take shelter 
for a little while. Then he would go home, and brave 
Mrs. Hubble. He would be back in his study when she 
brought in his breakfast. Breakfast ... he rubbed his 
big hands together, he was already beginning to feel 
hungry. But before he went home he must rest. That 
weariness which had muffled him like a cloak in the 
chapel, fumbling his movements and veiling his eyes, was 
dropping over him now. He felt the weight of it in his 
limbs, and, worse still, in his heart and brain. When he 
shut his eyes he saw nothing but rows of heads, staring 
and wagging. . . . He went into the barn, and the sudden 
stopping of the wind and rain made him feel dazed. 
Then a queer thing happened — he pitched forward on his 
face into a pile of straw, not giddy, not fainting, merely 
fast asleep. 


THE FOUR ROADS 


304 


12 

For some hours he slept heavily in his pitched, huddled 
attitude, but as the cloud of sleep lightened before waking, 
he had another dream of the old forge at Bethersden, and 
of himself working there, in the days before the 
“ voices ” came. He saw the great red glow of the 
forge spread out over the cross-roads, fanning up the road 
to Horsmonden and the road to Witsunden and the road 
to Castweasel. He saw the smithy full of it, and himself 
and his father working in it, with arms swung over the 
glowing iron — he heard the roar of the furnace and the 
thump of the hammers ; and a great fulness of peace was 
in his heart. Dimly conscious in his dream of all that 
had passed since those happy days, he felt a wonderful 
relief at being back in them, and the sweetest doubt as 
to the reality of his later experiences. ... So it had 
been a dream, all his ministerial trouble and travail, his 
brief snatch at love, his son's birth in sorrow and life in 
defiance and death in shame. . . . The hammers swung, 
and the forge roared, and the light fanned up to the 
stars. . . . 

Then he woke, with the roar and thump still in his 
ears, for his head hung down over the straw below the 
level of his body. All his limbs were cramped, and he 
found it difficult to rise. The first despair of waking was 
upon him, and he wished he could have died in his dream. 
Bright sunshine was streaming into the barn, lighting up 
its dark old corners where the cobwebs hung like lace. 
Framed in the big doorway was a green hill freckled with 
primroses and cuckoo flowers, with broom bushes budding 
against a thick blue sky that seemed to drip with sun- 
shine. 

He stumbled out into the stroke of the wind, now 
scarcely enough to ripple the big rain puddles that lay 


MR. SUMPTION 


305 


blue and glimmering in the road. He was in a part of 
the country he did not know, doubtless beyond the fron- 
tiers of the Four Roads, in some by-lane behind Rushlake 
Green. 

Though it was too late, he felt that even now he could 
not go back to Sunday Street. He shrank from meeting 
human beings, especially those who had sat before him in 
rows like pea-pods last night. Oh, those heads ! he would 
never forget them, how they had stared and rolled. . . . 
He turned away from the road, and went up the rising 
ground behind the barn. It was a spread of wild land, 
some common now in its spring bloom of gorse and 
violets. He threw himself down upon the turf, and for 
a few minutes lay motionless, with the sun gently steam- 
ing his damp crumpled clothes. 

He longed to be back in his dream, back in the red 
glow of the furnace, back at the old cross-roads in Kent. 
A sense of great cruelty and injustice was upon him. 
Why had the Lord called him from the work he loved, 
away to unknown cares and sorrows, to a life for which 
he was not fitted? It even seemed to him that if only 
he had been left a blacksmith this tragedy of Jerry 
would not have happened ... if Jerry had never been 
in the impossible, grotesque situation of “ a clergyman’s 
son.” . . . Why had the Lord sent voices, which never 
came now, which, indeed, had not come since his mar- 
riage? Why had the Lord raised up the minister at Ten- 
terden, to send him to a training college and try to make 
him what he never could be, a gentleman? He was no 
minister — only a poor image of one, which everybody 
laughed at. He had had qualms of doubts before this, 
but he had put them from him; now he was too ex- 
hausted, too badly bruised and beaten, to deceive himself 
any further. He was no minister of God — he could 
hardly, after a twelve years’ pastorate, scrape together a 


306 


THE FOUR ROADS 


congregation ; people went anywhere but to the Particular 
Baptists. They never asked for his ministrations at sick- 
beds, they hardly ever came to him to be married or 
buried, as if they doubted the efficacy of these rites at 
his hands ; he had not performed one baptism in the last 
five years, and the only time his church has been full was 
when they had all come to gaze on him, to see how he 
bore his trouble. On the other hand, if a man had a sick 
sheep or an ailing cow, or if his horse went lame or 
spoiled his knees, he called him in at once. That ought to 
have shown him. He was not a minister but a farrier, 
and the people of Sunday Street knew it, and treated him 
accordingly. 

He lay with his face hidden against the grass. It 
seemed as if his life had stopped like a watch, leaving 
him, like a stopped watch, still in being. Jerry, the centre 
and spring of his existence for twenty years, was gone; 
his ministry was gone — he could not go back after what 
had happened, and no brethren would call him elsewhere. 
He could not stay on at Sunday Street or return to the 
forge at Bethersden. Here he was, past middle age, 
without friends, without kin, without livelihood, without 
resources of any kind. He saw himself alone in a world 
burning and crashing to ruin, a world that bristled with 
the crosses of martyred boys and was black with the 
dead hopes of their fathers. 

A sob broke from him, but without tears. His being 
seemed dried up. The horror of thick darkness was upon 
him, of this blasted world rocking and staggering to the 
pit, of the flame which devoured all, good and bad, elect 
and damned, wheat and weeds. Who could endure to the 
end of this Judgment? Who hoped to be saved? All 
was burnt up, dried, and blasted. The day of the Lord 
had come indeed and had consumed him like a dry stick. 

“ My soul is full of troubles and my life draweth nigh 
unto the grave. 


MR. SUMPTION 


307 


“ I am counted with them that go down into the pit. 

“ Free among the dead, like the slain that lie in the 
grave, whom Thou rememberest no more. 

“ Thou hast laid me in the lowest pit, in darkness, in 
the deeps. 

“ Thy wrath lieth hard upon me, and thou hast vexed 
me with thy waves. 

“ Thy fierce wrath goeth over me ; thy terrors have cut 
me off. 

“ Lover and friend hast thou put from me, and mine 
acquaintance into darkness.” 


13 

His hands clenched on the young grass, slowly drag- 
ging out bunches of tender, growing things. He began 
to smell the sweetness of their roots, of the soil that 
clung to them — moist, full of sap and growth, of inevit- 
able rebirth. These budding, springing things, growing 
out of deadness into life and warmth, suddenly gave him 
a little piteous thrill of joy, which broke into his despair 
like a trickle of rain into dry sods. The earth seemed to 
hold a steadfast hope in her stillness and strength, in her 
scent and moisture and green life struggling out of death. 
. . . Those boys who had cast themselves down on the 
earth to die, perhaps they had found this hope . . . 
perhaps disgraced Jerry slept with it. No man, no blood- 
lusty power, could cheat them of it, for even bodies blown 
into a thousand pieces the earth takes into her kind still- 
ness and makes them whole in union with herself. 

Even in the Valley of the Shadow of Death, the earth 
had not failed him. No one could separate him from her 
or cheat him of his reward in her. From her he had come 
and to her he would return, and in her he would be one 
with those whom he had lost, his dead wife and his dead 


308 


THE FOUR ROADS 


son. There should be no disgrace there, nor torment, nor 
tears, nor sighing ; no parting, when all are united in the 
one element and the children are asleep together on the 
mother’s breast. . . . 


14 

An hour later Mr. Sumption had left the green hill and 
was walking towards a little hamlet that showed its 
gables at the bend of the lane. Now that his grief was 
spent, drunk up by the earth like a storm, he remembered 
that he was hungry, and set out to hunt for food. There 
was an inn at the beginning of the street, a low house 
slopped with yellow paint and swinging the sign of the 
Star across the road. Mr. Sumption walked in and asked 
the landlady for breakfast ; then, upon her stare, changed 
his demand to dinner, whereat she told him that the Star 
did not give dinners, and that there was a war on. How- 
ever, he managed at last to persuade her to let him have 
some dry bread and tea, and a quarter of an hour later 
he was making the best of them in a little green, sunless 
parlour, rather pleasantly stuffy with the ghosts of by- 
gone pipes and pots. 

The room was in the front of the house, and the 
shadow of the inn lay across the road, licking the bottom 
of the walls of the houses opposite. Above it they rose 
into a yellow glare of sunshine, and their roofs were 
bitten against a heavy blue sky. From quite near came 
the pleasant chink of iron, and craning his head he saw 
the daubed colours of a smith and wheelwright on a door 
a little further down the street. It comforted him to 
think that there should be a smith so near him, and all 
through his meal he listened to the clink and thud, with 
sometimes the clatter of new-shod hoofs in the road. 

When he had finished his dinner and paid his shilling 
he went out and up beyond the shadow of the inn to the 


MR. SUMPTION 


309 


smith’s door. The name of the hamlet was Lion’s Green, 
and he gathered he was some ten miles from home, be- 
yond Horeham and Mystole. It would not take him more 
than a couple of hours to get back with his great stride, 
so there was time for him to linger and put off the evil 
hour when he must confront Mrs. Hubble and explain 
why he had been out all night. Meantime he would go 
and watch the smith. 

There was no house opposite the forge, and the door- 
way was full of sunshine, which streamed into the red 
glare of the furnace. Mr. Sumption stood in the mixing 
light, a tall black figure, leaning against the doorpost. 
He had smoothed his creased and grass-stained clothes 
a little, and taken out the straws that had stuck in his 
hair, but he always looked ill-shaved at the best of times, 
and to-day his face was nearly swallowed up in his beard. 
The smith was working single-hand, and had no time to 
stare at his visitor. He wondered a little who he was, for 
though he wore black clothes like a minister, he was in 
other respects more like a tramp. 

“ Good afternoon,” said Mr. Sumption suddenly. 

“ Good afternoon,” said the smith, hesitating whether 
he should add “ sir,” but deciding not to. 

“ You seem pretty busy.” 

“ Reckon I am — unaccountable busy. I’m aloan now — 
my man went last week. Thought I wur saafe wud a 
man of forty-eight, but now they raise the age limit to 
fifty, and off he goes into the Veterinary Corps.” 

“ Shall I give you a hand? ” 

The smith stared. 

“ I’ve done a lot of smith’s work,” continued Mr. 
Sumption eagerly. “ There’s nothing I can’t do with hoof 
and iron.” 

The smith hesitated ; then he saw the visitor’s arms as 
he took off his coat and began to roll up his sleeves. 


310 


THE FOUR ROADS 


“Well, maybe ... if you know aught . . . there’s 
the liddle cob thur wants a shoe.” 

A few men and boys were in the smithy, and they 
looked at each other and whispered a little. They had 
never seen such swingeing, hairy arms as Mr. Sumption’s. 

A smile was fighting its way across the stubble on the 
minister’s face. He cracked his joints with satisfaction, 
and soon the little cob was shod by as quick, as merciful, 
and as sure a hand as had ever touched him. His owner 
looked surprised. 

“ I’d never taake you fur a smith,” he remarked ; 
“ leastways, not wud your coat on.” 

“ I’m not a smith. I’m a Minister of the Gospel.” 
The men winked at each other and hid their mouths. 
Then one of them asked suddenly : 

“ Are you the Rev. Mr. Sumption from Sunday 
Street? ” 

“ Reckon I am. Do you know me ? ” 

“ I doan’t know you, surelye ; but we’ve all heard as 
the minister of Sunday Street can shoe a horse wud any 
smith, and postwoman wur saying this marnun as he’d 
gone off nobody knows whur, after telling all his folk in 
a sermon as they’d started the War.” 

Mr. Sumption looked uncomfortable. 

“ I only went for a bit of a tramp, and lost my way 
. . . I’ve no call to be home before sundown — so, if 
you’ve any use for me, master, I can stop and give you 
a hand this afternoon.” 

The smith was willing enough, for he was hard-pressed, 
and the fame of the Reverend Mr. Sumption had spread 
far beyond the country of the Four Roads. The strength 
of his great arms, his resource, his knowledge, his ex- 
perience of all smithwork, made him an even more val- 
uable assistant than the man who had gone. There was 
a market that day at Chiddingly, which meant more 


MR. SUMPTION 


311 


work than usual, including several wheelwright’s jobs, 
which the smith performed himself, leaving the horses 
to Mr. Sumption. The furnace roared as the bellows 
gasped, and lit up all the sag-roofed forge, with the dark 
shapes of men and horses standing round, and the min- 
ister holding down the red-hot iron among the coals or 
beating it on the anvil, while his sweating skin was shiny 
and crimson in the glow. 

It was like his dream of the forge at Bethersden — and 
he felt almost happy. The glow of his body seemed to 
reach his heart and warm it, and his head was no longer 
full of doubts like stones. He had found a refuge here, 
as he had found it in old days in Mus’ Bourner’s forge at 
Sunday Street — the heat, the roar, the flying sparks, the 
shaking crimson light, the smell of sweat and hoofs and 
horse-hide, the pleasant ache of labour in his limbs, were 
all part of the healing which had begun when he rubbed 
his cheek against the wet soil on the common. His 
religion had always taught him to look on his big friendly 
body as his enemy, to subdue and thwart and ignore it. 
He had not known till then how much it was his friend, 
and that there is such a thing as the Redemption of the 
Body, the mystic act through which the body saves and 
redeems the soul. 

He worked on till the sun grew pale, and a tremulous 
primrose light crept over the fields of Lion’s Green, 
swamping the trees and hedges and grazing cows. The 
afternoon was passing into the evening, and Mr. Sump- 
tion knew he must start at once if he was to be home 
that day. 

“ Well, I’m middling sorry to lose you,” said the smith. 
“ A man lik you’s wasted preaching the Gospel.” 

“ Reckon I shan’t do much more of that,” said Mr. 
Sumption wryly. “ I can’t go back to my Bethel, after 
what’s happened.” 


312 


THE FOUR ROADS 


“Well, if ever you feel you’d lik to turn blacksmith 
fur a change ” the smith remarked, with a grin. 

“ I shall go into the Army Veterinary Corps,” said 
Mr. Sumption. 

“ W ot ! Lik my man ? ” 

“ Like the man I was meant to be. I agree with you, 
master — I’m wasted preaching the Gospel. I’d be better 
as a veterinary . . . I’ve been thinking. ...” 

15 

There was a farmer driving as far as Adam’s Hole on 
the Hailsham Road, and he offered Mr. Sumption a lift 
in his trap. The minister had shod his little sorrel mare, 
and with her hoofs ringing on the clinkered road they 
drove from Lion’s Green, away towards the east. The 
dipping sun poured upon their backs, flooding the lane 
and washing along their shadows ahead of them into the 
swale. The east was still bright, and out of it crept the 
moon, frail and papery, like the petal of a March flower. 

The little mare spanked quickly over the way on her 
new-shod hoofs. Through Soul Street and Horeham 
Flat, by Badbrooks and Coarse Horn on the lip of the 
Marsh rolled the trap, with the minister nearly silent and 
the farmer talking about the War — till the oasts of 
Adam’s Hole showed their red turrets against a wood, 
and, declining an invitation to step in and hear half a 
dozen more good reasons why the Germans would never 
get the Channel Ports, Mr. Sumption tramped off to 
where the East Road swung into the flats. 

The sun was now low, and the sunk light touched the 
moon, so that her smudged arc kindled and shone out of 
the cold dimness. Red and yellow gleams wavered over 
the country of the Four Roads, sweeping up the meadows 
towards Three Cups Corner, and lighting the woods that 



MR. SUMPTION 313 

blotched the chimneys of Brownbread Street. He saw 
Sunday Street slitting the hill with a red gape, and the 
sheen of the ponds by Puddledock, and the flare of gorse 
and broom on Magham Down. There was a great clear- 
ness and cleanness in the watery air, so that he could see 
the roofs of farmsteads far away and little cottages stand- 
ing alone like toadstools in the fields. Sounds came 
clearly, too — there was a great clucking on all the farms, 
and the lowing of cows ; now and then the bark of a dog 
came sharply from a great way off, sheep called their 
lambs in the meadows by Harebeating, and a boy was 
singing reedily at Cowlease Farm. . . . 

It was all very still, very lovely, steeped through with 
the spirit of peace — not even the beat of the guns could 
be heard to-night. These were the fields for which the 
boys in France had died, the farms and lanes they had 
sealed in the possession of their ancient peace by a cove- 
nant signed in blood. As Mr. Sumption looked round 
him at the country slowly sinking into the twilight, a 
little of its quiet crept into his heart. These w r ere the 
fields for which the boys had died. They had not died for 
England — what did they know of England and the British 
Empire? They had died for a little corner of ground 
which was England to them, and the sprinkling of poor 
common folk who lived in it. Before their dying eyes 
had risen not the vision of England’s glory, but just these 
fields he looked on now, with the ponds, and the woods, 
and the red roofs . . . and the women and children and 
old people who lived among them — the very same whom 
last night he had scolded and cursed, told they w r ere 
scarce worth preaching at. For the first time he felt 
ashamed of that affair. He might not think them worth 
preaching at, but other men, and better men, had found 
them worth dying for. 

Then, as he walked on towards Pont’s Green, he saw 


314 


THE FOUR ROADS 


these fields as the eternal possession of the boys who had 
died — bought by their blood. The country of the Four 
Roads was theirs for ever — they had won it; and this 
was true not only of the honoured Tom but of the dis- 
honoured Jerry. For the first time he felt at rest about 
his son. “ Somewhere the love of God is holding him. 
. . . ” He could not picture him in heaven, and he would 
not picture him in hell ; but now he could see him as part 
of the fields that he, in his indirect shameful way, had 
died for. Surely his gipsy soul could find rest in their 
dawns and twilights, in the infinite calm of their noons. 
. . . Jerry would be near him at the pond side, in the 
meadow, in the smoke of the forge, in the murmur and 
shade of the wood . . . and the cool winds blowing 
from the sea would wipe off his dishonour. 

16 

The lanes were empty for it was supper-time on the 
farms. A pale green was washing the rim of the sky, 
and the starlight shook among the ash-trees that trembled 
beside the road. Faint scents of hidden primroses stole 
up from the banks with the vital sweetness of the new- 
sown ploughlands. It was growing cold, and Mr. Sump- 
tion walked briskly. When he came to Pont’s Green he 
thought he saw the back of old Hubble tottering on ahead, 
so he slackened his pace a little, for he hoped to get 
home without meeting any of his congregation. The feel- 
ing of shame was growing, he felt as if he had despised 
Christ’s little ones . . . after all, who shall be found 
big enough to fit the times? What man is built to the 
stature of Doomsday? 

He heard himself called as he entered the village, and 
turning his head, saw Thyrza standing in the shop door, 
the last light gleaming on her apron. 


MR. SUMPTION 


315 


“ Mus’ Sumption! — is that you? ” 

He thought of going on, pretending not to hear; but 
there was a gentleness in Thyrza’s voice which touched 
him. He remembered the message she had sent him yes- 
terday morning. “ She’s a kind soul,” he thought, and 
stopped. 

“ Oh, Mus’ Sumption — whur have you bin ? ” 

Her hand closed warmly on his, and her eyes travelled 
over him in eagerness and pity. 

“ I’ve been over to Lion’s Green,” said Mr. Sumption. 
“ I couldn’t lie quiet at the Horselunges last night. I 
reckon tongues are wagging a bit.” 

“ Reckon they are — but we’ll all be justabout glad to 
see you back. I went up only this afternoon and asked 
Policeman if he cud do aught. Come in to the fire — you 
look middling tired.” 

“ I’ve been working at the smith’s over at Lion’s Green 
all the afternoon,” said the minister proudly. 

“ Surelye ! Everyone knows wot a valiant smith you 
maake ; but come in and have a bite of supper. The 
fire’s bright and the kettle’s boiling, and thur’s a bit of 
bacon in the pan.” 

Mr. Sumption’s mouth watered. He had had nothing 
that day except the bread and tea provided at the inn, 
and it was not likely that Mrs. Hubble would have much 
of a meal awaiting him. True, it was doubtful morality 
to encroach on Thyrza’s bacon ration, but Thyrza her- 
self encouraged the lapse, pulling at his hand, and open- 
ing the shop door behind her, so that his temptations 
might be reinforced by the smell of cooking. 

“ Come in, and you shall have the best rasher you 
ever ate in your life — and eggs and hot tea and a bit of 
pudden and a fire to your feet.” 

She led him through the shop, whence the bottles of 
sweets had vanished long ago, and the empty spaces 


316 


THE FOUR ROADS 


were filled with large cardboard posters, displaying 
Thyrza’s licence to sell margarine, and the Government 
list of prices — through into the little back room, where 
the firelight covered the walls with nodding spindles, and 
little Will lay in his cradle fast asleep. 

“ I have him in here fur company like," said Thyrza. 
“ Reckon he sleeps as well as in the bed, and it aun’t so 
lonesome fur me/’ 

For the first time he heard her sorrow drag at her 
voice, and noticed, as, manlike, he had not done before, 
her widow's dress with its white collar and cuffs. 

“ God bless you, Mrs. Tom," he said, and she turned 
quickly away from him to the fire. 

For some minutes there was silence, broken only by 
the humming of the kettle and the hiss of fat in the pan. 
Mr. Sumption lay back in an armchair, more tired than 
he would care to own. The window was uncurtained, and 
in the square of it he saw the big stars of the Wain . . . 
according to the lore both of the country of the Four 
Roads and of his old home in Kent, this was the waggon 
in which the souls of the dead rode over the sky, and 
that night he, in spite of his theological training, and 
Thyrza, in spite of her Board School education, both felt 
an echo of the old superstition in their hearts. Did Tom 
and Jerry ride there past the window, aloft and at rest 
in the great spaces, while those who loved them struggled 
on in the old fret and the new loneliness? 

“ I always kip the blind up till the last minnut,” said 
Thyrza at the fire. “ It aun’t so lonesome fur me. How- 
sumdever, I’ve company to-night, and I mun git the 
lamp." 

So the lamp was set on the table, and the blind came 
down and shut out Tom and Jerry on their heavenly 
ride. Mr. Sumption pulled his chair up to a big plate 
of eggs and bacon, with a cup of tea beside it, and fell to 


MR. SUMPTION 


317 


after the shortest grace Thyrza had ever heard from him. 

“ Reckon I’m hungry, reckon I’m tired — and you, Mrs. 
Tom, are as the widow of Zarephath, who ministered to 
Elijah in the dearth. May you be rewarded and find your 
bacon ration as the widow’s cruse this week.” 

He was beginning definitely to enjoy her company. 
Thyrza’s charm was of the comfortable, pervasive kind 
that attracted all sorts of men in every station. He 
found that he liked to listen to her soft, drawly voice, 
to watch her slow, heavy movements, to gaze at her 
tranquil face with the hair like flowering grass. She at 
once soothed and stimulated him. She encouraged him 
to talk, and when the edge was off his appetite, he did so, 
telling her a little of what had happened to him the last 
night and day. 

“ And what do you think I’ve learned by it all, Mrs. 
Tom? What do you think my trouble’s taught me?” 

Thyrza shook her head. In her simple life trouble 
came and went without any lesson but its patient bearing. 

“ It’s taught me I’m a blacksmith, and no minister.” 

“ Reckon you’re both,” said Thyrza. 

“ No — I’m not — I’m just the smith. And to prove it 
to you, from this day forward I shall not teach or preach 
another word.” 

“ Wot ! give up the Bethel ! — not be minister here any 
more? ” 

“ Not here nor anywhere. I’m no minister — I’ve never 
been a minister.” 

“ But ” 

“ There’s no good arguing. My mind’s made up. I 
shall write to the Assembly this very night.” 

“ Oh ” 

“ How shall I dare to teach and guide others, who 
could not even teach and guide my own son? No, don’t 
interrupt me — the Lord has opened my eyes, and I see 


318 


THE FOUR ROADS 


myself as just a poor, plain, ignorant man. Reckon Fm 
only the common blacksmith I was born and bred, and 
trying to make myself different has led to nothing but 
pain and trouble, both for me and for others. I ask you 
what good has my ministry ever done a human soul ? ” 
“ Oh, Mus’ Sumption, doan’t spik lik that,” said 
Thyrza, with the tears in her eyes. “ Reckon I’ll never 
disremember how beautiful you talked of Tom last night 
. . . and oh, the comfort it guv me to hear you talk so ! ” 
“ You’re a good soul, Missus — reckon there’s none I 
could speak to as I’m speaking to you now. But you 
mustn’t think high of me — I spoke ill last night; I was 
like Peter before the Lord let down the sheet on him — 
calling His creatures common and unclean. I’ve failed 
as a minister, and I’ve failed as a father — the only thing 
I haven’t failed as is a blacksmith; thank the Lord I’ve 
still some credit left at that.” 

He hid his face for a moment. Thyrza felt confused 
• . . she scarcely understood. 

“ Then wot ull you do, Mus’ Sumption, if you mean 
to be minister no more ? ” 

“Join the A.V.C. — Army Veterinary Corps. I see as 
plain as daylight that’s my job.” 

“ Wot ! Go and fight ? ” 

“ Reckon there won’t be much fighting for a chap of 
my age. But I’ll be useful in my way. I hear they’re 
short of farriers and smiths. Besides, they’re calling up 
all fit men under fifty, and I can’t claim exemption as a 
minister, seeing I ain’t one; and reckon Mr. Smith ull 
go now Randall Cantuar and Charles John Chichester 
have said he may. ... So I’m off to Lewes to-morrow, 
Mrs. Tom.” 

“ We shall miss you unaccountable. Besides, it aun’t 
the life fur a man lik you.” 

He laughed. “ That’s just where you’re wrong — it’s 


MR. SUMPTION 


319 


the very proper life for a man like me, it’s the life I 
should have been leading the last thirty years. How- 
soever, it’s not too late to mend, and reckon I’ll be glad 
to have my part in the big job at last. Here’s thirty 
years that I’ve been preaching the Day of the Lord, and 
now’s my chance of helping that day through a bit.” 

He stood up and pushed back his chair. 

“ Oh, doan’t be going yit, Mus’ Sumption.” 

“ Reckon I must — I’ve all sorts of things to do. Don’t 
be sorry for me — I’m doing the happiest thing I ever did 
as well as the best. I’ll be doing the work I was born 
for, and I’ll be helping the world through judgment, and 
I’ll be doing what I owe my boy — your boy — all the boys 
that are dead.” 

Thyrza’s eyes filled with tears when he spoke of Tom. 
For a moment he seemed to forget his surroundings, 
and to fancy himself back in the pulpit he had renounced, 
for he held up his hand and his voice came throatily : 

“ Behold the day cometh that shall burn as an oven ; 
and all the proud, yea, and all that do wickedly shall be 
as stubble. But unto you that fear My name shall the 
Sun of Righteousness arise with healing in His wings. 
And He shall turn the heart of the fathers to their chil- 
dren, and the heart of the children to their fathers. . . . 
Oh, Thyrza, the world is sown over with young, brave 
lives, and it’s our job to see that they are not as the seed 
scattered by the wayside, sown in vain. Reckon we must 
water them with our tears and manure them with our 
works, and so we shall quicken the harvest of Aceldama, 
when our beloved shall rise again. ...” 

His voice strangled a little ; then he continued in his 
ordinary tones : 

“ That’s why I’m joining up. I owe it to Jerry — to 
finish what he began. By working hard, and submitting 
to orders, as he could never do, poor soul, maybe I’ll be 


320 


THE FOUR ROADS 


able to clear off the debt he owed. He shall rise again 
in his father’s effort. ...” 

Thyrza was crying now. “And Tom?” she asked in 
her tears — “ I want to do summat for him, too, Mus’ 
Sumption. How shall Tom rise up agaun? ” 

He pointed to the cradle at her feet : 

“ There’s your Tom — risen again both for you and for 
his country. Take him and be comforted.” 

She sank down on her knees beside the cradle, hiding 
her face under the hood, and he turned and left her, stalk- 
ing out through the shop into the darkness. 

Crouching there in the firelight, with her baby held 
warm and heavy against her breast, she heard his tread 
grow fainter and fainter, till at last only an occasional 
throb of wind brought her the footsteps of the lonely man 
upon the road. 


THE END 
























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